


Nothing Breaks

by Trevlik65



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trevlik65/pseuds/Trevlik65
Summary: Following the aftermath of the failed assassination attempt on the King, Athos, rejected by his Majesty as a Musketeer, leaves Paris behind. There is something he must see, something he should have done long ago, perhaps then, he can return to Paris and attempt to form a new life. Whether that life will include the Musketeers, only fate will decide.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

Nothing Breaks… Chapter 1

Christmas had come and gone, New Year too. Life at the garrison went on as normal, only now normal didn't seem quite enough, not for Aramis. He and Porthos still drank, laughed, did all the things they had done before, but in the quiet of his own room, at night, the Musketeer would often shed a tear for their missing friend. Porthos said little; Aramis could sense the big man was as desolate as he, but he hid it behind his anger. Once they realised Athos was not returning, Porthos had forbidden Aramis from mentioning his name. Still, every time a horse galloped through the arch Aramis looked, and his heart broke a little more each time he realised it was not him. Treville, too, often looked toward the garrison entrance, though under the pretence of watching the men spar.

Morning tasks had been distributed, and Aramis and Porthos had pulled armoury duty. They cleaned and checked pistols whilst Aramis hummed to himself, enjoying the mundane activity – unlike Porthos, who hated such prolonged periods of inactivity. It was warm in the dim room and the gun oil made for a heady atmosphere.

'Porthos! Aramis!' The shout cut across the open courtyard space and reached into the quiet armoury – no need to question who the authoritative voice belonged to.

'Treville,' the two men replied in unison. They replaced the weapons and stepped out into the bright light of the winter morning. There had been little snow since Christmas, but the temperature had never quite risen high enough to prevent ice from forming on the water trough each morning during the weeks that followed. Now February was almost over, the weather had grown warmer, the weak sun promising to revisit the memory of warm spring days, but today was not one of them.

They looked toward the balcony, to see the scowling figure of Treville, his eyes searching the garrison. He was about to yell again, when he saw the two Musketeers heading his way.

'My office,' was all he said, before disappearing inside. The two men looked at each other.

'Do you think he knows about the other night?' Aramis asked the big man.

'Nah, it was nothin'. No one was hurt, just a little excitement at the end of a long day.' The two men considered the fight two days ago in The Wren. Aramis nodded.

'You are right, there was not much blood, and we paid for the broken table.' Porthos nodded, smiling in agreement. Still, the two men thought it best to begin piecing together a story as they headed up the steps, just in case.

They knocked upon the door and waited for the usual command. 'Come.' Smiling at each other, the two men entered.

Treville stood behind his desk, looking as fraught as usual. It had been relatively quiet over the festive period – Richelieu had kept his head down following the Captain's parting shot during their last encounter. However, he could not be sure just how much the Musketeer Captain knew concerning his infantile plot to secure Rochefort in the good graces of the Spanish party. But the identification of Edward Boudain, now that had shaken him, and so, for now, he was behaving himself, or at least plotting quietly.

'Gentlemen, the King wishes to see me. Somehow I get the feeling he has a new scheme in mind, and after the last one, I cannot say I am too thrilled at the idea. I want you two with me. Someone else can take over whatever it was you were doing. We leave at once.' Dismissed, the two men hurried from the room and collected their cloaks. The King liked to see his Musketeers in full dress, as he liked to think they looked far better than the Cardinal's guards. Which of course they did.

It was not as if the three of them ever spent much time together socialising, but when Treville and the two men did find themselves riding through Paris, Athos was the subject that hung in the air between them. This morning, Porthos rode behind, and Aramis decided he could risk a question without his friend hearing.

'Have you heard anything?' He did not add to what he was referring, he knew Treville would know. The Captain sighed and looked into the hopeful face of the Musketeer.

'No, nothing. But then I do not expect to. If Athos wishes to return, he knows where to find us. It must be his choice, Aramis.' He noted the crestfallen expression on the young man's face. 'Give him time. It has not been long, he may have other matters he needed to attend to. He may still be back.' He smiled at the soldier, but Aramis did not hear the ring of sincerity he was looking for in the Captain's words.

oOo

Athos had not taken the direct route through the village, as he hoped to complete his task without anyone ever knowing he had been there. The sun was slanting through the tall trees, as he slid from his horse, causing small lights to dance over the grass as it played through the early, spring leaves. The spot was on a small hill, far from the village. It was ironic that from here he could clearly see the bare branches of the tree from which she had hung. If he closed his eyes, it was an image he could recall only too clearly, seared into his memory for all time. Shaking off the sudden chill that came over him, he tried to ignore the sensation that he was being watched.

Athos tethered Roger to a bench – a small token he had provided for the elderly who found the hill taxing on a Sunday, when attending church. Apart from the horse champing at the grass, and the whistling birds in the trees, it was silent, and even the breeze had ceased to blow. For a moment, he took in the peace and solitude of the spot. There was a lot to be said for a churchyard, it was always quiet and peaceful. He had often sneaked into the lych-gate as a child, and sat upon the bench with a book. The old priest would bring him out a cool glass of something to drink and his plump wife would make him biscuits. That was until his father had discovered his hiding place… the rest was history. No more biscuits in the silence of the churchyard, and what ever happened to the priest and his wife he never found out. Another parish he supposed, his father would have seen to that.

The resting place of the dead was the one spot, even in the heart of Paris, where one could be alone, if ever one were ever truly alone with the dead. But at least they were silent. Only at night, in his dreams, did they scream and cry his name, demanding he give them a voice.

He wound his way through the small stones, until he found the family plot. The large mausoleum stood on the De la Fère estate. There his ancestors lay on their cold, stone shelves taking their eternal rest. Only those lucky enough to be deemed less important spent eternity beneath the green grass, warmed by the soft sunlight, unaware of their fortune, compared to the cold, dark tomb that tortured the remains of their betters.

Here, favourite family retainers were laid to rest, cousins, those whose names no one remembered. He traced the name of one such stone. Phillipe Geroux. His first sword master. He remembered the man well. He smiled to himself, he reminded him a little of Aramis – always well-groomed, a ready smile and an eye for the ladies of the household. He had been a good swordsman, and he had taught the young boy well. A winter cold had taken the man far too young, and the young vicomte had wept until his father had forbidden it. Weeping was for women, he had said and, even then, not for the likes of Geroux. Still, the man had been granted a place in the churchyard, which was no mean achievement. From then on, no sword master ever lasted long enough to die in service. His father saw to that.

Athos moved from one stone to the other, not sure what he expected to find. As his wife, she should have had a place in that cold, dark place with the rest of the family, but he could not let that happen. How could his brother's body lie next to the woman who had taken his life?

Neither should she have been buried in hallowed ground, but he had not had the strength left to deny her this. He could not have her buried by a roadside, for ever to wander between this world and the next. Though he had no belief anymore, neither was he superstitious. Still, recent events had dictated he finally visit this spot. He needed to see it for himself.

He had paid René to have her buried quietly in the family corner. He had the man left money and instructions, for he did not wish any part of the ritual. He was not proud of his decision – one more failure, leaving someone else to deal with her remains. He had wandered between the stones for some time, and the sun was slanting long shadows across the soft grass, the light more golden now than when he had arrived. He leant against a tall cross and sighed deeply. Perhaps there had never been a stone. Perhaps to be inside the walls of the cemetery had been enough. He could have found René and asked, but he could not bring himself to do that, not after all this time.

He was about to turn away, leaving the inhabitants to their quiet slumber, when something caught his eye. Off to one side, there was a small mound, a simple cross marked the spot; no fancy stone, or guardian angel, just a simple white wooden cross, but the earth was covered in small leaves, soft green leaves, with the finest traces of hair on their small fronds. His heart beat more rapidly, and he found himself walking closer. He knew the plant well, it was small now, but in a few weeks the grave would be covered in the tiniest blue flowers. This had to be it. He knelt on the soft grass, the earth beneath submitting to his weight. Brushing the vines and dirt away from the small marker, beneath his fingers he felt the crude letters, carved into the wood. AF – 1625 RIP.

His heart hitched. So, it had been done. He had begun to wonder. Had begun to consider somehow, if she had survived. The jasmine, the touch. Now he had found her resting place, and he didn't know whether he was relieved, or destroyed all over again. Repose en Paix. Did she? He had evidence to prove she did not, but then why would she?

He made his way back to his horse, laying his head against the reassuring warmth of the animal's neck. He mounted up and rode away. As he rode past, Athos tried hard not to look at the bear bare branches, swaying gently in the breeze. But the tree called out to him and he halted the horse. There it stood, just as it had almost a year ago today. He could see it so clearly – would that image never fade? The faces of his father and his mother seemed so dim and vague now, and even Thomas' gentle smile had to be wrenched from his memory, lest he forget. But this – her smile, her touch, her body hanging motionless from the branch of a tree. They were as vivid and as colourful as if it were yesterday; how he wished they would fade, as everything else had faded. Or was it his punishment to see it all so clearly, so raw, for the rest of his days? He ran his hands over his eyes, hoping that when he looked again it would all be gone.

Holding tight to the reins, he spurred Roger forward, giving the horse his head, riding over his land as if the entirety of hell were riding behind him. He rode hard, until Roger wheezed for breath, sweat and flecks of foam flanking the horse's mouth; so hard that the tears were blown from his eyes before they had chance to fall. When horse and rider could go no further, he sank against the coarse mane and gasped for breath. As man and beast were calmed, he slid from the animal's back, leading him over to a small stream to drink.

He had not thought beyond this moment. Since he had left Paris, he had been driven, first by the visit to the Duchess, and then to return home, to find her. Now they were done. What was he to do now?

oOo

Treville and the two Musketeers reached the throne room and walked toward the King. He was consulting some papers with the Cardinal, but smiled brightly when he saw Treville – always a good sign.

'Treville, here you are, excellent. The Cardinal and I were just discussing you, were we not Cardinal?'

'Indeed, we were Sire,' the Cardinal simpered. 'And here you are Captain, most fortuitous.' The grin he gave Treville put paid to any confidence the King's welcome may have inspired. He knew something, and he also knew Treville was not going to be happy about it.

'You sent for me Your Majesty,' Treville acknowledged. For a second the King's smile faltered. Aramis felt for his superior. All the years he had attended his monarch, day in day out, he had still never managed to adopt that ingratiating air needed by any successful diplomat when dealing with the King. Treville still held onto that no-nonsense approach which made him an excellent soldier but a terrible politician.

'Now, Treville, I will not have you spoiling my idea. I have made up my mind and I simply need you to make it happen.' He smiled broadly once more and Treville's heart sank. Please, God, let it not be another party.

'I will do my best, Sire. What is it you wish me to do?' The King clapped his hands and looked from the Cardinal to his Captain.

'We are going on a trip, Treville. Myself, my wife, the Cardinal, and one or two others. We have been inside for too long, and I wish to see what is happening outside my doors.' Treville looked taken aback. He glanced at the Cardinal, and the man's frozen smile told him that he, too, was less than happy with the news.

'A trip, Sire? Forgive me, I am not sure I understand.' Treville attempted to keep an expression of mild surprise fixed to his face when, in reality, he wanted to rant and scream. God only knew who had put this latest madness into the gullible monarch's head.

'I told you he would be surprised, Cardinal,' the King giggled. Richelieu raised his eyes to heaven, as if praying for patience.

'You did, Sire. And I think it is safe to say you were correct.' He looked at Treville, his eyes almost pleading with the man to say something.

'Well, Captain, after the trouble with my brother, there were whisperings you understand, you know how gossip spreads. I even had a letter from a member of the family offering their sympathy, after my terrible accident. Sympathy, I ask you, Captain, rumours of the King of France having a terrible accident. I considered another party, did I not, Cardinal?'

Richelieu visibly paled before he replied. 'Indeed you did, Sire, but we decided, did we not, that something more personal would be better. I recommended individual invitations, but Your Majesty had ideas of his own.' He eyed Treville, making it quite clear that he had not encouraged this latest lunacy.

'Of course I did, Cardinal. I am the King, I have marvellous ideas.' He was still grinning broadly, but could see that his Captain was still in the dark.

'You see, Treville, the Cardinal pointed out that a party would be expensive. After all, last time I had to rebuild half the palace, but the least said about that the better. So, why not let other people have the expense – I shall go to them!' He grinned in delight and awaited the Captain's reaction.

'Your Majesty, plans to visit some members of the nobility, to ensure they can see you are well, is that your proposal?' The King almost jumped up and down in his seat.

'Yes, yes, Treville! Some of the pompous fools were probably in league with my idiot brother – won't they squirm when they have to show fealty to their King and pay for it themselves?' Treville had paled. The very thought of ensuring the Monarch's safety for such a journey was already giving him a headache.

'Just how many do you envisage visiting, Sire?' He hardly dared listen to the reply and, when it came, he nearly choked.

'Well, I counted at least ten who were conspicuous in their absence; Interesting do you not think? However, the Cardinal has pointed out that some of them were very old, may even be dead, so I have agreed on five. Won't it be fun?' Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances – five members of the nobility, spread over God knows how many leagues.

'Your Majesty must realise that ensuring your safety on such a trip will be subject to many risks.' Louis pouted.

'You see, Cardinal, I told you Treville would make it sound dreary. Well I am sorry, Captain, but I want my Musketeers. They are my regiment and they will protect me, of that I am sure. To show you I am not at all unreasonable, I will not leave until the end of March. After all, I need to give those lucky enough to entertain their King, sufficient time to prepare – some of these country estates are such dowdy affairs. Now, speak to the Cardinal and he will give you the list. Forgive me, but I need to go and consult on a travelling wardrobe. One must look the part, especially when one wants the nobility to grovel. Good day, Captain.' The King departed, taking his entourage with him, and leaving Treville, Aramis, Porthos and the Cardinal staring at each other in amazement.

For once, Richelieu looked apologetic. 'Do not think I had anything to do with this ridiculous notion, he actually came up with it all by himself. It is madness of course. Giving them time to prepare – plot and unite more like. Still, I suppose we can hope the shock or fear of financial ruin might bring on the odd apoplexy, or encourage them toward suicide. Meanwhile, what do you intend to do about it, Treville?'

The Captain ran his hands through his thinning hair, Aramis was familiar with the gesture, routinely used by their Captain, when he was angry or frustrated, or simply dealing with Athos. The memory made him smile.

'I doubt, at this point, there is anything I can do. Who has he chosen and how long is this trip going last?' Treville asked in frustration.

'He is beginning by retracing the journey Gaston made, stopping at the Château Rambouillet and Château d'Ambois. The whole journey could last for months, dependent upon how long it takes His Majesty to bankrupt each household.' Treville shook his head in disbelief.

'Months then. That is madness.' He looked horrified at the thought.

'Of course, he may get to the first household, hate the food and decide he is coming home. That is the beauty of dealing with our King, you never know what he might do next. Anyway, Treville, I suggest we meet tomorrow, when you have had time to digest the information. I have to admit, for once I am glad this journey is on your shoulders. I almost feel sorry for your men.' With that parting shot, Richelieu left the room, leaving a bewildered Treville alone with the two Musketeers.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It had not been a conscious decision, at least not that he was aware, but then perhaps somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he had allowed his heart to rule his head for once. As the light began to fade, he was again on that same grassy mound, transfixed by Paris in the distance. Where before it had been an anonymous city in which to lose oneself, this time it was not the same. No longer beneath those distant roofs were people without faces, without names; now there were those he cared for and, for reasons he could not quite fathom, cared for him.

He allowed his mind to wander back to the garrison – he would not return. Treville had given him his chance and, despite what had occurred, it had not been enough. He should have known when the Captain offered him the lifeline, that it was not to be. His horse stamped on the ground, eager to move. He, too, was tired and, unlike his master, was ready for food and rest.

Feeling the impatience of his mount beneath him, he gently moved off toward the fading skyline. Though the days were drawing out now, the cloudy afternoon promised an early twilight. Small buds clung to the stark boughs, hoping a sudden frost would not burn them before they could feel the warmth from the spring sunshine. By the time horse and rider reached the first scattering of houses, candles had already begun to burn in the windows. Though not yet dark outside, the small rooms would be dim and depressing without the glow of a lamp at this hour. The amount of people out on the street increased as he rode further into the city; traders making the most of the increased daylight hours, attempting to make that final sale of the day, struggling to sell wares that would be of no use tomorrow.

He was not sure if it was Roger, or he himself, who steered their way towards Monsieur René's; the farrier had looked after Roger well the last time Athos had been alone in the city. Once again, he found himself watching the man busy about his work in the diminishing light. He wasn't sure he could do this again, somehow it was a bitter reminder of all he had lost. Roger sensed the familiar surroundings and tossed his fine head, blowing steam into the cooling air. Yes, it was the best place for his horse.

'Monsieur René.' A cool, confident tone broke the concentration of the older man. Looking up, his face broke into a beam of recognition.

'Monsieur Athos, it is good to see you. Yes, you too, my fine sir,' he addressed Roger, as he stroked the stallion's black nose, the horse recognising the familiar voice.

'May I impose on your hospitality once again?' The farrier gave a sad smile and nodded.

'I did think of letting the stable after you left, it was a good way to earn a little more coin. But I wasn't sure… if you might need it again.' He frowned and gave Athos a searching look. 'I am sorry if things did not work out, son.' He looked genuinely grieved, and Athos nodded.

'I am not sure how long I will stay, but this should cover all you need for a while. The same conditions will apply.' He held out a purse of coins and captured the farrier's gaze until the old man reluctantly nodded his agreement. When René spoke again, he sounded weary.

'Then as last time, your horse will be ready for you when you need him.' The two men shook hands and Athos walked off into the thinning crowd. At least he knew where he was headed for the moment.

oOo

Following their unsettling audience with the King, the three soldiers rode back to the garrison, the King's declaration weighing heavy on their minds.

''E will be a sittin' duck,' Porthos offered, as they rode side-by-side down the busy thoroughfare. Treville nodded.

'Not only that, he will have given them warning this time. His Majesty will expect a certain level of preparation, failing to see that he is also giving his enemies time to prepare rather more than a decent menu,' the Captain added, still furious.

'What can we do?' Aramis asked, Treville shook his head, settling his gaze on the two men beside him.

'Plan, check, and double-check each route. Find out whatever we can about the inhabitants and make sure we are prepared. We can do nothing more.' The three men arrived back at the garrison and Treville marched up to his office, slamming the door behind him.

'Guess he is not happy,' Aramis offered, as he watched the Captain retreat inside his office.

'You're dam right 'e's not. Don't blame 'im either,' Porthos agreed. 'Guess there's no chance of being left behind?' He looked at Aramis with a wry expression.

'Now why would you want to do that?' The marksman grinned. 'Think of all the excitement you would be missing. And if you are really lucky you might get to knock Gaston on his royal, conniving backside, like Ath….' He stopped in mid-sentence, seeing his friend's face darken. Aramis' mood instantly deflated, and his smile vanished. 'I am sorry, mon ami, I did not think.' Porthos continued to scowl, but he accepted Aramis' apology with a nod of his head.

'It doesn't have to be this way you know,' Aramis offered quietly. 'He isn't dead!' Porthos scowled at his friend.

''E may as well be,' he growled, and began to walk away. Aramis grabbed his arm, tired of avoiding Athos' name.

'Why? Why does it have to be like this? Can't you see it from his point of view?' Porthos wheeled round.

'No, I can't. I keep seein' 'im all those times we had to carry 'im back here, bloodied and broken. All those times we sat by 'is bed, waitin', prayin' 'e would live. Then 'e just upped and left, no goodbye, no nothin'. That's why it has to be this way. I thought we were getting somewhere with 'im, but I was wrong. 'E didn't care at all.' With that, he pulled his arm from his friend's grasp and strode off toward the refectory.

Aramis understood that Athos had not left because he did not care, he had left because he had begun to care too much. After Porthos had gone, he remained in the garrison courtyard, suddenly tired. The light was beginning to fade, and it felt like the end of a taxing day. No longer did an evening at The Wren hold any appeal – he would retire and read the book his friend had left him.

Porthos sat alone playing with his stew, it was almost unheard of for the big Musketeer not to spoon it down, as though afraid someone was waiting to spirit it away; he had suffered too many years of uncertainty, not knowing where, or when his next meal would be coming from.

'Sumthin up with my stew?' Serge asked, tidying the table. Porthos lifted his head and smiled at the old cook.

'Nah, it's just fine Serge, just got things on my mind, that's all.' The old man nodded.

'Must be bad if you aint eatin',' the cook added sagely. Porthos nodded, but still played with his food.

'Seems to me, things haven't been quite the same around here since your young friend left. I never got a chance to know him well, but he made quite an impression on Treville, and the young cadets still talk about him like he was pretty special. He had a way with 'em, made 'em feel important – unlike that toad Deveaux!' He spat out the man's name, never one to mince his words. Porthos clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to speak what was on his mind.

''E never said goodbye, Serge, why did 'e do that?' He looked over at the old man, who now took a seat by his side.

'Perhaps he couldn't. Perhaps he knew you wouldn't let him go.' He watched as the big man struggled with his emotions.

'We wouldn't 'av. There was no need for 'im to go. 'E had a place here, 'e knew that.' Serge shook his head.

'He may have been a good sword master, but you and I both know it would not have been enough. We all saw the way he fought that last time. Treville wanted that boy with a pauldron on his arm. He saw something in him, something more than a swordsman, more than a soldier. But the boy came from a dark place. Whatever haunted him, and you can be sure something did, he wasn't going to sit back and watch you and Aramis ride out side-by-side, whilst he adjusted footwork and swordplay all day. It would have slowly killed him. Now you need to stop being angry with him, because wherever he is, he probably feels a lot worse than you. You have Treville, Aramis and the rest of the regiment, but what has he got now, without you?' Porthos looked at the old man as his wise words sunk in, realising the validity of his opinion.

oOo

It had been a complete coincidence, seeing him ride into the city as the day drew to a close. About the Cardinal's business, she moved through the crowd, cold and invisible. The cart pulled to one side in order to allow horse and rider to pass. As she stood in the doorway, she observed the lone rider, up straight on the black horse as he rode by. Her heartbeat increased. So, he had returned.

When she had learnt of his departure, she had been disappointed. She told herself she had lost the opportunity for revenge she had sought for so long, but in reality, it had been more than that. As she had gone about her life in the underbelly of the city, she no longer turned at the sound of a horse's steady rhythm, and she no longer caught her breath in her throat at the sight of man she thought was him.

Her feet hurried through the crowd, hood pulled over her features. He was easy to follow, as he rode slowly along the road, no sign of urgency in his demeanour. She was surprised when he stopped before the farrier's but, as she observed the transaction from a distance, it became obvious it was not the first time they had met. Waiting until they had finished whatever business had been transacted, she watched Athos head for The Red Barrell and smiled. No need to worry where he would be for the next few hours. Pulling down her hood, and rearranging her features into a smile. She approached Monsieur René as he began to lead Athos' horse away.

'Forgive me, Monsieur, for interrupting your work, but I could not help but observe this fine horse. I do not suppose he is for sale?' Roger pawed at the ground, as if aware of the closeness of his master's nemesis. The farrier smiled at the beautiful woman standing before him. Chuckling, he shook his head and replied:

'I am afraid not, Madame. My fine friend here stays with me whilst his master has business in town. We are old friends, are we not, Roger?' She smiled and gave a tinkling laugh.

'Roger, what a strange name for a horse.' She attempted to stroke the animal's soft nose, but the horse whinnied and shied away. Her eyes narrowed. 'A spirited animal, perhaps he would not have been suitable for me after all.' If there were more behind the comment, it was lost on the old man. He smiled and led the tired horse away. Turning to look at the tavern, a wicked gleam shone in her eyes, a plan forming in her scheming mind as she walked away.

Inside the dark tavern it was already busy. Athos had adopted his usual table and sat in the shadows, deep in thought. He had drunk the first bottle without much hesitation, but now on the second, he found he could not consume it with as much enthusiasm. He stared at the empty cup as though, by thought alone, he could refill it without disturbing his tired limbs. A sudden shattering of glass caught his attention and he noted two men with scarves around their faces, one of whom was gripping the landlord by the throat, whilst a young woman, presumably his daughter, handed over a small pouch. The man who was throttling the landlord let him go, and he staggered back to the ministrations of the young girl, the two aggressors leaving without further ado. Athos watched with only mild interest. Two disgruntled customers, not surprising if they had ordered this wine, he had forgotten how disgusting it was. But it was wine and if he drank enough, he would not longer notice, and with that thought alone, he poured the last of the bottle and signalled for another.

At some point during the night, he presumed he must have either fallen asleep, or become senseless. He had no recollection of dreaming, so he must indeed have passed out, rather than having made a conscious decision to settle. He awoke in a cold, empty tavern. It was barely light, and his limbs were stiff and uncomfortable. In addition, his eyes were refusing to focus – in fact, they were reluctant to open at all. He felt around for his hat and pulled it firmly in place. He could not remember whether or not he had paid his bill, so laid several coins on the table, judging the amount to be sufficient. With some difficulty, he managed to stand, at which point, his head decided to join with his aching body in proclaiming its refusal to function following such wilful abuse. For a moment, he swayed, his gait unsteady, until he could regain some measure of equilibrium. Eventually, he managed to make his way toward the door, where he slid the bolt across and let himself out into the pre-dawn.

The street glittered, a spring frost covering the ground. He shivered in the frigid air, but it helped somewhat to clear his throbbing head. He hesitated, not sure of his destination. He needed to find rooms. He had money from his work at the garrison and his incapacitation had meant he had not yet spent it all on wine, but for now, he would make do with sharing the hay with Roger.

Sitting in the doorway, patiently waiting not far from where Athos stood, was a small boy. It had been a long, cold night, but at least the woman had given him something warm to eat and a blanket with which to cover himself. It could have been worse, and the reward she had offered had helped keep him awake – he could not afford to lose that much coin. He had begun to think the mark had drunk himself to death, but no, here he was though, to the boy's eyes, he appeared only slightly better than dead. The street child crept out from beneath the warmth of the rug and threw it around his shoulders. Why not? She had not specified its return. He watched the man stagger slightly before managing to walk upright, and in a relatively straight line. He continued to watch as he walked straight through the farrier's workshop, entering the small stable at the back, and the boy wondered whether he might be about to steal the horse. Instead, he was shocked to see the man stroke the black stallion, before sliding down into the straw, curling up like a child and settling to sleep. Well, he had done what she had paid him to do, now perhaps he could get a couple hours rest too.

oOo

The garrison began to busy itself with the orders of the day; there was now much to do in preparation for the King's tour. Treville had laid out the necessary maps, which now covered every available surface – including the floor. Having sent for Aramis and Porthos, he stood hovering over them frowning, as he considered the best route. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the two men.

'Come,' the familiar call answered, though the tone was distracted and not as forceful as normal.

The Captain straightened, rubbing his aching back before turning to face the two Musketeers as they entered. He gestured toward the maps, and they stood on either side of their Captain as he began to explain.

The three men studied them for over an hour, discussing the best routes, the worst roads for an entourage that big, and the likeliest places for an ambush. By the time they had finished, they had identified far more negatives than positives. Treville walked over to the cupboard, taking a bottle and three glasses from the shelf and, indicating that the two men should take a seat, poured each of them a drink.

'It would appear, gentleman, that the route we choose will be fraught with danger whatever we do. In this scenario there is no such thing as a safe road, not when one is escorting the King of France, let alone the Queen and the First Minister.' He drank deeply from his cup as though saying the names out loud had made the reality even more painful.

'Athos was good at this stuff.' The statement, though not surprising in its accuracy, made the others raise their eyebrows in amazement. The fact that it had been made by Porthos stunned the two men. Treville had not been party to the discussions between the two Musketeers, but he had observed the tension and the fact that Athos' name was conspicuously absent from their conversations. Porthos noted the reaction of the two men and shrugged his wide shoulders.

'Just sayin',' he scowled, but Aramis smiled and slapped him on the shoulder, sensing something had changed.

'Perhaps we should conduct some reconnaissance,' Aramis suggested. Treville appeared thoughtful.

'Go on,' he encouraged.

'Well, you could send men to check out the routes, see who is in residence. At least those involved would be aware of our presence. We would also know if anyone new had been invited or was visiting at the same time as the King, who had not been there previously.' Treville smiled.

'Good thinking. It is better than sitting here staring at maps. I will dispatch men in pairs to carry out your suggestion.' Aramis added:

'We could revisit the first two on the route, we have been before so will have a slight advantage – Château d'Ambois and Château D'Ramboullet.' Aramis was aware of Porthos, who simply frowned and shrugged his shoulders. Treville agreed.

'You leave in the morning, take what you need. I will send out further pairs to scout the other destinations. At least this way we will have a better idea of what we face. Thank you, gentleman. Safe journey.' The two men turned and left the office.

'Why'd you do that?' Porthos asked. ''E won't be there, you know that don't ya?' Aramis attempted to look surprised.

'I do not know what you mean, I simply thought it would make sense. We have been to both houses before and would know if anything appeared out of place.' Porthos humphed and gave his friend a side-long glance.'

'You must think I'm stupid. You want to go back to the Château D'Ambois because you know 'e went to see the old girl. That was weeks ago, 'e's hardly likely to be there now. And if 'e is, what then?' Aramis' shoulders slumped, and he sank down on to the bench. Hesitating for a moment he answered:

'I do not know what I expected. It was just a chance, he might have told her something.' His dark eyes pleaded silently with Porthos to understand. 'I thought perhaps you'd had a change of heart, after what you said in the Captain's office.' He watched as Porthos scowled, gazing off into the distance.

'Perhaps I've been doin' some thinkin'. Maybe you were right, 'e would have found it hard, me and you carrying on, in and out of the garrison, whilst 'e was stuck here working with the cadets. 'E deserved better than that. I understand why 'e went. I just wish 'e had said goodbye.' Aramis smiled softly.

'So do I, but I believe he thought it was better for all of us that way.' He raised his hand as Porthos began to interrupt. 'It would have been harder still to have watched him leave.' The big man gave a single nod.

'Don't go gettin' your hopes up though, 'e will be long gone.' Aramis simply patted his friend's arm.

'We have a journey to prepare for, and I shall not wait for you if you are late.' Porthos chuckled.

'Right, like I'm the one who keeps everyone waitin'!' The two men went their separate ways to gather what they would need for the trip.

oOo

It was the second night Athos had spent absorbed in a tavern – the day between had passed in a blur. He had spent the morning working off a mild hangover and, in the afternoon, he had collected his horse and ridden long and hard. But as the afternoon wore on toward evening, he found himself retracing a familiar path back to Paris, as if pulled by some invisible thread.

Now, in the dark shadows of the tavern, he embarked on his second bottle. He had not returned to the Red Barrell; his standard of living may have taken a downward turn, but their wine was almost undrinkable. And so, he was quietly nursing his cup of slightly improved wine, when he noted a scuffle at the bar. He squinted, focusing tired eyes on the perpetrators. There was something familiar about the entire scenario. Two men, faces hidden, were haranguing the landlord, this time – unlike the night before – he passed a hefty purse across to the two men without the need for further violence, but Athos noted the expression of fear and hatred in the man's eyes.

Could they be the same pair that he had seen the previous night? Athos did not favour coincidence. Draining his cup, he rose giving the serving girl some coin and, taking his bottle with him, casually followed the men outside.

It was not late, but the night was cloudy and little moonlight lit the street, which was no longer busy. Athos looked left and right. The odd horse and cart trundled by and men, already drunk, staggered home after a long day; windows showed fleeting images of family life, and flickering lamps threw the occasional glimmer of light on to the damp cobbles.

A shout of anger, further on, showed him what he was seeking. One man was helping another to his feet, two others having pushed him to the floor, out of their way. The two culprits hurried ahead turning into the next tavern. Athos followed.

This inn, like most of the others in the city, was busy. A girl was wending her way between tables, balancing a tray of ale on her ample hips, giving Athos a cheeky grin and a wink as she brushed against him. His attention, though, was focused on the events unfolding at the far end of the bar.

The two men whom he had followed were pinning the landlord against the wall, and when his wife intervened, brandishing what appeared to be a large rolling pin, one of them lashed out, knocking the shocked woman to the floor. Several nearby customers made to intervene, but the sudden appearance of a pistol persuaded them it was none of their business.

The landlord raised both his hands in supplication and, moving to a box at the rear of the bar, he took out a small object and practically threw it at the man holding the knife. The recipient merely laughed and grabbed the purse, giving the man a hard shove that sent him staggering into a stack of barrels, as they pushed their way through the crowd, and disappeared into the night.

Athos considered following, but decided against it. The landlord may prove more informative. He approached the bar, patiently waiting for the man to finish restacking the fallen barrels.

'Wine,' Athos requested. The man grunted and reached for a cup and bottle.

'Trouble?' Athos asked, supping from the vessel. The man peered closer at his customer.

'Nothing I can't deal with,' he replied, appraising the man posing the question.

'How long?' Athos continued. The man's eyes widened then narrowed. Scowling, he growled:

'I don't know what you mean.' He gulped, his eyes darting toward his wife.

'How long have you been paying them?' Athos persisted. Now the man was visibly scared.

'I'm not paying anyone, it was just business – mine not yours.' He gave Athos one final glare then moved off to serve someone else.

Athos took his drink and found a spot suited to his mood. Those who drowned their troubles usually migrated to the rear, where it remained generally darker and proved less conducive to socialising. He sat in silence, finishing the bottle he had carried from the last establishment.

The serving girl from earlier caught his eye and, checking to see she wasn't needed elsewhere, approached Athos' table, hips swaying as she walked.

'Anything I can do for you, handsome?' she purred, tracing his jaw with her fingers. Athos was about to decline when he changed his mind. Producing a coin, he held it aloft. Her eyes gleamed, and with a sultry smirk she told him:

'You might have to wait a while if you want to spend that, I'm working until late. Though for you, I might get off early.' She licked her lips, like a cat anticipating the cream.

'What I want will only take a few minutes. Why not take a seat, Mademoiselle?' The girl's smile faded, her expression becoming guarded.

'The landlord appears to be having trouble from two of his customers.' The girl pouted, this was not how she had hoped the conversation would progress. The man was not like most of her regulars, having an air of aloof authority which she found attractive.

'I'm not sure what you mean,' she responded. Perhaps the longer she kept him talking, the better her chances might be. Athos was tired, and though his interest was piqued, he did not possess the flattery necessary to finesse the girl – that was Aramis' forte.

'Mademoiselle, I suspect he is being forced to pay, my guess is for protection. One of these days they will come, and he may not be able to pay. Then someone will be hurt. What can you tell me?' He held the coin in front of her again and she grabbed at it, placing it between her small breasts. Pouting, she began to talk:

'It started a couple of months ago, they came and asked for money, Luc just laughed at them. When he came down the next morning, someone had broken in and let the ale out of the barrels, it was a shocking mess. The next night they came back, and he paid up. They've been coming regular ever since, always at the beginning of the month, and getting nastier too.' She looked scared, and Athos frowned.

'Do you know who they are?' She shook her head.

'Are you sure I can't do anything else for you?' She leant forward and moved the hair from over his eyes. 'Such beautiful eyes, you shouldn't hide them so.' Athos was at a loss how to respond, when a voice shouted above the noise.

'Paulette, get over here, you're supposed to be working!' The landlord's wife had obviously overcome her upset and was scowling across the room at the young woman. The girl stood, rolled her eyes and blew Athos a kiss.

'Another time, then.' With that, she made her way back across the room, ensuring she made the most of her retreating figure.

Athos sat back and poured himself another glass of wine. So, somebody was running a protection racket in Paris. Not good, not good at all. The question was, what to do? He could pass the information on to the garrison, though it was not really within their remit. No, for now he would watch and wait – it wasn't as if he had anything better to do. Until then, there was wine to drink and a long night to get through.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Athos had spent the afternoon keeping company with Roger – they had enjoyed a long gallop through the rough countryside surrounding the city. Now both spent, Athos found a secluded spot beneath the boughs of an old willow, the long branches caressing the small bubbling river that ran, tranquil beneath. All was silent, and the sun shone warm on his face. Tethering his horse where he could eat and drink his fill, he peeled off the warm leather doublet and pulled his shirt free. Lying on the bank he rested his head on the soft moss, contemplating his life, or what had become of it.

For the last two days, he had been only minutes from the garrison entrance. So what had prevented him from crossing that threshold, and taking what Treville had offered with both hands? Would it be so bad? He had enjoyed working with the cadets, though he had to admit he had enjoyed the rest of his time at the garrison more – apart, that was, from when he was in the infirmary, he hated the infirmary. However, the memories of a fussing Aramis and a scowling Porthos, bought a momentary smile to his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, like a cloud covering the sun. It was peaceful on the river bank, just the sound of Roger tearing at the grass, whilst early bees buzzed somewhere nearby. Eventually, the peace and warmth suppressed his immediate worries, and he drifted off to sleep.

As his master lay in blissful ignorance, Roger had wandered closer, deciding he had waited patiently for long enough. Nudging the idle form with his long black nose, he blew hot air onto his master's cheeks. Athos awoke with a start. He sat up, abruptly shaking his head when he realised what, or rather who, had woken him. He reached up, stroking the soft nose, as he acknowledged the gentle hint. By now, the sun had sunk low in the sky, its light now golden as it played amongst the leaves, dappling the green bank.

'I suppose you are ready to go home?' He rested his head against the warm neck. 'Where is home boy? Do you care? Probably not. Perhaps we expect too much from the institution. Maybe you have it right – warmth, food somewhere to sleep. Why confuse the issue with companionship, purpose, or love?' He patted the horse, and pulled on his jacket, not bothering to tidy his shirt. The air was still warm, and they had several miles to cover before they reached Paris.

oOo

Milady stood in the cover of the church doorway, the irony not lost on her. A small boy hurried across the street and skidded to a halt in front of her. She arched a dark eyebrow, waiting to receive what she had paid for.

'So, what do you have for me?' All the time the boy talked, she scanned the streets, never missing the chance to identify something of interest.

'Same as before. Went to the tavern, only this time he didn't stay long. Came out behind two coves, then followed them to another tavern. This time he stayed. By the time he came out, he was well in his cups. Then to the stable like before.' Her informant stood there, hopping from one foot to the other, as though the church steps were hot coals, burning his feet. She considered the information.

'How, do you know he was following the men?' The boy rolled his eyes and huffed.

'Please, it's wot I do, lady. I know when someone is followin' someone else. He kept back, but only enough to keep 'em in sight. He was followin' 'em awright.' She lifted her chin, contemplating the boy.

'Did you recognise the two men?' This time he narrowed his eyes, standing as if frozen, both actions telling her that he knew something he was reluctant to admit. Sighing, she reached into her purse and pulled out another shiny coin. 'I will ask you again. Did you recognise the two men?' Eyes darting back and forth, the boy made to grab at the coin. 'Not so quick. Talk,' she ordered. The boy sighed.

'I seen 'em before. They turned up some time back, faces always covered, so I don't know who they are – honest. They go into the taverns, one after the other, don't stop long enough to drink nuthin' though, then they come back out and go to the next. Word is, they are gettin' money. If the landlords refuse...' he shrugged his small shoulders and, smiling her catlike smile, she handed over the money.

'Very good. Now I have another job for you. How are you at stealing purses?'

Once the boy had gone, she leant back against the wall. Oh, Athos, always one to have to right a wrong. How predictable you are. What does it matter to you if someone has found a way to make money, even if it is at somebody else's expense? You always did have to help the underdog – to interfere. Well, your interference will be your undoing, it is time you were no more. I have waited, I have been patient, but I have become restless. You are a thorn under my skin, and it is time you were removed.

oOo

Roger safely ensconced with Monsieur René, he wondered if he would happen upon a repeat of last night's events. He would be on the alert – whoever they were, it had to be stopped. A thick mist was beginning to settle over the city, and there were few people on the street. The dense spring fogs were a godsend to those desperate inhabitants of the city wishing to hide their sins and debauchery. God-fearing people, on the other hand, kept to their homes, filling their rooms with light, as if it would keep evil at bay, and if they heard a cry from outside, they crossed themselves and prayed.

Athos swaggered down the quiet thoroughfare, his haughty stance easily recognisable from a distance. She watched closely, hiding in the shadows as usual; where she now belonged. He appeared more dishevelled than usual, jacket open, shirt barely confined within his breeches. Her pulse was racing – not long now. If his appearance beckoned memories of long, passion-filled nights, she refused to admit it. Forcing herself back to the present, she hardened her heart – now was not the time for distraction, no matter how pleasurable.

There. A small figure darted in between the empty stalls. It was time. She crossed the street, waiting, feeling her blood practically bubbling in her veins. The boy darted out of nowhere, dashed across Athos' path, grabbed at his purse and ran, oh did he run – he bolted as if his life depended on it. She could have told him Athos was too noble to ever hurt a child; he would probably hand him over to someone to straighten out, but would never hit or lash out in anger. Though she recalled that his anger had often led to far more interesting moments!

The boy came out of nowhere. Athos was deep in thought, and before he could react or grab the child, he was gone, along with the purse. He did not stop to question his own actions – heading off after the boy he darted in and out of the empty market stalls, but the boy was quick and maintained a good distance between them. Nimbly, he darted into a darkened alley, and Athos followed. The walls on either side were tall and the encroaching mist made it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. He walked tentatively, at last questioning the intelligence of his response.

Athos found himself at a dead end, no sign of the figure he had followed. Stopping to regain his breath, he turned, leaning heavily against the wall. As he waited, his breathing slowly returned to normal. One of the small doorways in the passageway must have provided an escape route for the thief. If he knew the area well, he would be long gone by now. There had not been much coin in the purse, it was no great loss. As he pushed away from the wall, something moved in the shadows. His breath came in clouds, the air still cold, despite the anomalous warmth of the day indicating the approaching spring. March had blown in cold and blustery, and tonight was no exception.

Shivering, he decided that finishing the evening in some dark tavern was probably his best option. It had been a quiet day, but after his earlier rest he anticipated a long night. Again, he noticed the smallest shift in the light filtering through the evening mist. He narrowed his eyes, squinting, and tried to focus on the source of movement.

She watched as the boy grabbed at his purse and launched himself into the narrow alleyway. Athos darted after the racing figure, never stopping to contemplate his actions, never considering it may be a trap. Stupid. Slowly, she followed, her heart racing. So, this was to be it, the moment she had fantasised over for so many nights. In a few moments it would be over. What would he say? Would he sneer and condemn her? Would he beg for forgiveness? No, never that. As she entered the alley, she paused and, feeling beneath her petticoats, she grasped the hilt of the small dagger. Somehow it felt alien in her hands. Though she had used it many times before to end a life, none of those lives had elicited a second thought. Tonight, she was completing her own unfinished business, and somehow, it felt like the first time.

She could see him now. He faced her at the end of the alley, breathing heavily, eyes closed. She froze, green eyes now open, he was looking straight at her. Could he see her? The mist had gathered, swaying around them like waves upon the sea. She began to move forward once more, hardly able to breathe, a mixture of excitement and dread building within her.

Now the movement was clearer. Though the mist had grown thicker, he could make out the shape of a woman. She wore a cloak or such like over her head, and appeared to glide through the wraith-like fog like an apparition. As the figure became clearer, his heart squeezed and terror took hold. Apparition indeed. No! It could not be! This was not real. Athos did not know whether to draw his weapon or pray, though he decided that either option would be futile. Suddenly she was standing before him. He stared, brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. In a voice that sounded like a broken whisper, disembodied, not emanating from his own mouth, he gasped:

'What do you want?' The apparition smiled, it was a sly, knowing smile. In the old days, it would have held the promise of fulfilled desire and satisfaction. Now it froze him to the marrow. The apparition did not speak, but instead raised its hand and reached for him. Athos held his breath, not sure what to expect, waiting for the cold hand of the dead to touch his soul.

When the warm fingers stroked his face, his confusion grew. When she spoke, he was lost.

'You think I am a ghost? Do I look like a ghost?' The words came out in a breathy whisper, a sensual purr. She continued to move her fingers down his cheek, along the soft waves of his hair, enjoying the look of consternation upon his face. 'Does this feel like a ghost?' Her hands moved around his jaw, and she could feel the rapid pulse beneath her fingers, her heart beating in time with his. As she allowed her thumb to trace the contours of his throat, she felt the chain around his neck. Looking up into his face, she noted that the terror had gone, there was no emotion there at all, but his chest heaved, and she knew he was struggling to gain control.

Good, let him suffer. But something about his expression awoke an emotion deep inside of her. Had he begged, or pleaded, or shown some sign of weakness, she would have ended it, there and then. But no, his demeanour was arrogant if anything and, despite her agenda, she felt the old familiar arousal. Though theirs had been a happy marriage for the brief time they had been together, Athos had a temper, and it had always managed to ignite her desire. On those occasions, he had forgotten he was a gentleman, and their subsequent lovemaking had been fierce and urgent, feeding their most primitive desires. She had underestimated what his anger might do for her still. When he spoke she stilled her hand.

'How?' Just one word. He had always had the ability to say so much, with so little. Still playing with the chain around his neck, she searched his eyes.

'You did not wait long enough. You did not have the stomach to watch me die, to see my body hang and twitch from the bough of the tree beneath which we had made love. You did not see my corpse.'

'I have stood at your grave,' he whispered. She raised a brow, the slightest trace of a smile upon her red lips. Again, she stroked the heavy chain as, slowly, she began to withdraw it from beneath his shirt.

'Anyone can dig a grave, that does not mean anything lies within. You should have waited, seen it to the end.' He looked desolate now, and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out to her, but at the last moment, he dropped his hand to his side. He felt the chain slide along his heaving chest, scraping against his fevered skin as her nails once had. At the end, hung a locket. Her heartbeat increased, she didn't think it was possible – it already hammered inside her chest like thunder in a summer storm. Neither of them spoke, nor moved, as she opened the small silver case. When the interior was revealed, she gasped. The small blue flowers, pressed forever, a keepsake of a day long past. A precious moment she had long sought to blank from her memory. But he had not. He still wore it around his neck, hanging close to his heart.

For a moment she lost her nerve. She did not even know at what point she had returned the dagger to its home beneath her skirts. One hand held the locket, the other found itself pressed to his chest, where she could feel the rapid thumping of his heart.

Athos could not believe what he saw before him. The heady scent of jasmine filled the air, and this time he knew it was not his fevered imagination. But she could not be real. When her warm fingers touched his skin, it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out. As their tips traced his jaw and made their way to his throat, he froze. How? How could she not be dead? But her hands were not those of a corpse. Then she spoke, that sultry purr, the same velvet voice she used when she had taken his hand, promising him the earth and beyond. He hardly dared breathe, in case she should disappear. But why? Why would it matter?

She could feel her treacherous body begin to respond to the closeness of his. This was not the way she had planned it. She had killed so many times, she had lost count. Now, when she needed to shut off her emotions, they were raging a war within her, and desire was the strongest.

Athos pulled at his leather gloves, which dropped to the floor as he slowly reached out to see if the vision was real, for there was still some part of him that did not believe it could be true. As his fingers touched her cold cheek, he almost recoiled, her skin was ice cold. Could she be dead? Did the dead touch and talk like the living? He moved his hand down lower, he could see the pale flesh beneath her cloak, and he shifted the heavy silk aside. Her breathing was heavy, and he could see the rise and fall of her breast, as she, too, struggled to get enough air into her lungs. She was no corpse.

What happened next, neither of them could have explained. Who moved first it was impossible to tell – perhaps they moved as one? She was pressed against him so hard, he could feel the bricks dig into his back, as she forced him against the wall. Her cheeks may have been cold, but her lips were warm, and soft. Her hands were in his hair and she kissed him with a passion that had long been hidden and suppressed. For him, also, it had been too long, and all those months of pain, anguish and loneliness exploded in a sudden longing he could not control. The kiss became more ferocious, more urgent. They clung on to each other as if their very lives depended upon it. He swung her around so that the roles were reversed and now she was forced against the wall. She lifted her head as he kissed her neck, her throat. She pulled his shirt free and reached beneath for the warmth of his chest. The sound that came from his throat spurred her on and his lips found her once more. When it seemed there was no way to prevent the inevitable, they broke apart, just for a second, pausing to regain their breath. Their eyes locked, desire evident, need raw upon their features.

Then something happened, Athos reached out and traced the side of her face. Was it the tenderness in his touch that undid her? Rough desire, animal passion, she could deal with, and match it with her own. But tender affection? She was not prepared for that. Terrified at what they had done, she pushed him away. Catching him off guard, he staggered, slightly drunk with emotion. Without looking back, she dodged beneath his arm and ran. She ran like she had never run before, and she kept running until she was sure he had not followed her. God, what had she done? Her world had suddenly crashed around her. Her plans, her revenge, gone like the spring mist. How could he? She tried to tell herself she was angry at him, but she knew deep inside that the emotion that ruled her being right now was nothing akin to anger, unless you counted its intensity.

He stood frozen, his head buzzing with questions, his body still throbbing with desire. He wiped a hand across his face. What in hell had just happened? Tentatively, he touched his face, as if he would find some evidence of her caress. The fog moved and pulsed, adding to his confusion. Had it been real? His body told him it had been very real indeed. So, she was alive. How? Why? And after all this time. A strangled sob ripped from his throat; he could still taste her, and that damned smell of jasmine still clung to his skin. He moaned. How could he have just seen his supposedly dead wife, let alone slake that long-buried desire in so base a way – though it had been a mutual desire, of that he was in no doubt. Slowly sinking to the floor, Athos looked to the darkened sky – what now?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As the two men walked into the dim interior, Athos became instantly alert; he had been biding his time, hoping he had chosen the correct establishment. The landlord had been sick for the last week, and the swordsman had banked on this to have delayed the collection – he had been right. Slowly, he rose from his table, not wishing to alert the men to his presence until the last minute.

oOo

'Well it has not been the day we anticipated,' Aramis sighed, as he emerged from the extremely unpleasant infirmary. Porthos slapped his friend on the back.

'Serves 'em right, they should know better than to eat in a place like that. Dunno wot they were thinkin',' smirked the big Musketeer.

'Food poisoning though? Still, I have done what I can, the infirmarian can take it from here. The night is wearing on, do we risk eating out?' He appraised his friend, amused to see the look of consternation on his face.

'Well we know The Wren's food is good,' Porthos answered hopefully.

'We also know, it will be full of Red Guards, and they still want to hurt us – badly – after your last bout of good luck. I do not have the energy to convince them otherwise for a second time.' He raised a brow at his friend, and Porthos chuckled.

'Well,' he said, placing a muscled arm around his friend's slim shoulders, 'let us see where the night takes us.' With that, the two men left the garrison, and its sick inhabitants, in search of good food and good wine.

oOo

Athos had been desperate to find something to take his mind off what had just happened, his emotions in a state of unmitigated chaos. Walking toward the two men, he let his anger have free rein; and though only a fraction of it was caused by his unsuspecting victims, they were going to suffer the result – in its entirety. Wine had never stood a chance of obliterating his consciousness tonight, a decent fight was the only alternative, he needed oblivion now more than ever, from wherever it came.

Athos had always been able to channel his aggression when he fought. Though fury burnt in his eyes, his actions were cold and calculating, and he supposed that, at least, was something he could thank his father for. Silently, he moved behind the two men, and began to speak, his voice haughty and arrogant – angry Athos at his best.

'Gentlemen, I believe that money does not belong to you. I suggest you return it or…' He let the sentence hang in the air, smirking at the two astonished men and, raising a brow, he awaited their response.

The landlord appeared terrified. 'This is nothing to do with me, I've never seen him before,' he pleaded. One of the men glared at the desperate man.

'Well don't worry, because you won't be seeing him ever again.' He grinned and turned to face Athos, the other man following suit.

'Or what?' the second man asked, his voice muffled by the scarf around the lower half of his face. Athos tilted his head, appearing to give the question some thought. Satisfied with his answer, he gave the slightest curl of his lips before replying.

'Or, I will simply peel it from your dead hands.' He gave the slightest incline of his head whilst waiting for one of the two men to make the next move. When the pistol emerged, he was already one step ahead. The knife left his hand so quickly, only the merest flash of steel caught the recipient's attention, before embedding itself in the shoulder of the arm holding the weapon. From that point, everything happened at once. With his free hand Athos drew his sword, relishing the feel of its weight in his hand – he had remained inactive for too long. He could not help but smile as he lifted the weapon to his forehead; he might be about to kill them, but that didn't mean he was without honour.

He took a step backward, sending a table flying, ale pouring in all directions, and hoped that the owners of the spilt beverages would not be encouraged to join the fray. The man with the dagger wound pulled the knife from his shoulder and, as blood flowed freely from the wound, Athos noted that he was obviously the stupid one. He risked a glance to see where the knife had fallen, before raising his sword. The first man roared in anger and leapt toward Athos, his own sword out in front of him, but Athos deflected it with no difficulty.

He began to manoeuvre them toward the door, there was no room inside, and he did not wish to injure any innocent bystanders. Stupid now had his own sword raised, and they both came at him simultaneously. Athos parried the two blades and thrust the uninjured man backward, accidentally taking his comrade with Athos made to move forward once more, he heard a voice in his ear, as something was pressed into his left hand. The landlord looked scared, but a remnant of hope lit his eyes as he whispered to Athos.

'Ere's ya dagger, make sure you kill the bastards!' Athos did not break his concentration, just nodded and gratefully accepted its return. The handover had taken only a few seconds, but it was long enough for Stupid and his companion to gain their footing once more. Athos took two very quick strides forward, lunging at the two men. At that moment, one of the obliging patrons pulled open the door and the two men hurtled backwards – just as the tip of Athos' sword tore open the injured man's jerkin. He howled in pain and stumbled backward into the street.

oOo

'Now, where do you suggest we settle our weary bones this fine night?' Aramis asked, as they sauntered along the quiet road. He inclined his head toward his friend, who was about to speak, when the door of the nearby tavern opened, and two men literally fell out, one screaming in pain. Aramis and Porthos took a step backward, vaguely interested in seeing how the scene would unfold, though not eager to get caught up in it.

Just then, a cold and deadly Athos came tearing out of the tavern in pursuit of the two men. The Musketeers, their eyes wide and their mouths open, could not believe what they were seeing. Porthos made to step forward, but Aramis placed a restraining hand on his friend's arm, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

'Might be worth watching,' he suggested, and Porthos gave a chuckle of delight.

Athos was parrying and lunging at the uninjured man with fierce accuracy, resulting in several tears in his doublet, and there was blood dripping down the finger of the hand not holding his sword. The other man, Stupid, was beginning to feel the effects of blood loss, and decided a less subtle approach might be more effective. Climbing up onto a stack of boxes, he threw himself at Athos' back, causing the swordsman to stagger. Clinging tight, he held him around the throat and, as Athos attempted to fight off his other opponent, he was now struggling to keep his balance. Becoming irritated with this new distraction, Athos whipped his head forward, then threw it backward with full force, catching the fool on his back across the nose, eliciting a sick crack as the bone smashed. Falling to the floor, he howled, as he clutched at his bleeding and broken nose.

'E might talk like a nob, but 'e can sure fight dirty,' grinned a proud Porthos. Aramis beamed, though he winced at the man's pain.

Athos raised his sword, and tilted his chin upward, a sure sign he was going in for the kill. When a sudden cry from the end of the street halted his attack, he turned, as did the two Musketeers, in time to see a party of guards appear around the corner. Athos hesitated for split second, then punched the man hard in the face with the hilt of his sword, before hastily melting into the shadows. Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, deciding that, as this was not their fight, they were not going to be found by the Cardinal's guards standing over a couple of bloodied men. Though neither of them had any idea in which direction Athos had gone, they, too, turned and fled.

When they were convinced the guards had not followed them, the two Musketeers halted their flight. Porthos leant against the wall, doubled over, waiting for his breathing to settle. Aramis, despite his rapid gasps for air, wore a stupid grin as wide as the Seine. Porthos eyed his friend's joy and shook his head. He tried to scowl but eventually, even he began to chuckle.

'E always did know how to make an entrance!' the big man snorted, glee chasing away any reservations.

'Did he see us?' Aramis asked.

'Nope, doubt it, 'e had other business to attend to. Which reminds me, perhaps we need to ask some questions. After all, we were after food and drink,' he smirked at his companion. Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and, hesitating no longer, he strode back in the direction they had come.

As they neared the tavern, Porthos noted a small boy hovering in the doorway of the building opposite, he whistled softly and indicated for the child to come over. The lad checked over each shoulder but made no move to approach the two men. Porthos understood his doubts and produced a coin from inside his doublet.

With a renewed interest the boy moved forward and, when he was still some distance away, he asked haltingly: 'Wot yer want?' Porthos smiled and pointed to the tavern door.

'Just take a look inside and tell us if there are any Red Guards in there,' the big man explained, crouching down to avoid towering over him. The boy noted the pauldron's on the two men's shoulders and smiled.

'Is there gonna be a fight?' His eyes were shining with excitement. Porthos shook his head and laughed.

'Not if we can help it.' The boy appeared slightly crestfallen, but took the money anyway. He scurried off toward the tavern, opened the door and went in. A couple of minutes, later he came back out and walked over to the waiting men.

'Nah, they wos in earlier, but there wos some trouble and they dragged two men off. They aint bin back since.' Aramis nodded and thanked the boy, who ran off into the night – well, as far as the corner – before finding a new place to wait and watch.

'Shall we?' Aramis asked, gesturing Porthos to precede him into the tavern. The air had turned cold, as it often did in spring, but inside the tavern the fire was lit, and the air was humid and thick with smoke.

'Needs to get 'is chimney swept,' Porthos choked, as he waved his hand in front of his face. They worked their way toward the bar and requested an ale each.

'I hear there was trouble in here tonight,' Porthos stated, in his usual forthright manner. Aramis, meanwhile, was giving the serving girl the benefit of one of his very best smiles, hoping his charm would produce more answers than his friend's less subtle approach.

A short while later, both men sat down with their food and ale and listened to what the other had discovered.

As he tucked into his dish of steaming stew, Porthos imparted his information first. 'It seems the landlord was having some trouble with a couple of customers, when Athos barged in and took 'em to task. Reckon there is more to it than 'e's tellin', though, 'e seems scared. Said 'e 'ad never seen Athos before tonight. Sumthin' tells me that part was true.' Aramis appeared smug, and wiped his beard before sitting back on the bench and relating his news.

'My informant was far more forthcoming.' Porthos rolled his eyes but continued to dip bread into his stew. 'Apparently, she works most nights as the barmaid at The Fleece, but tonight her friend needed a favour – don't ask – so she swapped. Now your landlord may not have seen Athos before but she had, and this is what she told me…'

'I couldn't believe me eyes. It was the same gent as last night, ever so 'andsome he was, and 'ad a real nice way of talkin', made yer shiver it did.' She shivered and rubbed small pudgy hands along her bare arms, to illustrate her point, though the look on her face said she rather liked it. Aramis raised a brow but made no comment. 'Well me and 'im 'ad a little business last night.' She gave a sly smirk and Aramis almost choked on his ale.

'You did?' he asked astounded, the shock on his face eliciting a guilty expression. She blushed slightly, twisting her hair around her fingers.

'Not like that! Wot kinda girl do ya think I am? Though I wouldn't a minded.' She giggled and gave Aramis a nudge. Noting his expression, not to mention the shiny coin he was passing between his fingers, she reluctantly resumed her story. 'Well, 'e wanted to know about the trouble we wos 'avin' at The Fleece, the two men who kept coming in at the beginnin' of the month, demanding money. So I told 'im. After that I 'ad to go and work – the landlady is a real bitch. So, imagine my surprise when he comes in tonight as large as life. Though he didn't look 'appy, 'e 'ad a right face on 'im. I was glad it wasn't me 'e was angry with, I can tell yer – face like thunder, angry, but cold, if you know what I mean?' Aramis knew exactly what she meant, and he wondered what had happened to pitch his friend into such a mood.

'Then what happened?' Aramis encouraged. She shrugged.

'Not sure. I didn't want to bother 'im, 'e didn't look in the mood. Next thing I know, 'e's knifed one of 'em and is fightin' with the other. He pushed 'em both out into the street. Thought that was it, but next thing I know, the damned guards come in, pushin' everyone around as always, shoutin' about who was 'e. Well, we didn't know did we, so we couldn't tell 'em. Not that we would 'av anyway, after all, he was only tryin' to 'elp. I just 'ope 'e aint made it worse.' She looked worried and Aramis handed over the money, hoping it might ease her pain.

'One more question. The two men, were they after money from the landlord tonight?' She nodded, though not particularly enthusiastically. Aramis stood and thanked her for her help.

'So you see, it appears Athos has got himself involved in some form of protection racket.' Porthos scowled and shook his head.

'I've told you before, 'e simply can't keep out of trouble – attracts it like bees to honey.' Aramis shrugged, but even Porthos' annoyance could not dampen his mood.

'He is back in Paris, that is all that matters. Now all we have to do is find him.' Porthos began to shake his head, then he paused.

'Why?' He looked at Aramis intently.

'Why what?' Aramis retorted, frowning.

'Why do we 'ave to find him if 'e's in Paris and 'asn't come to find us?' Aramis rolled his eyes.

'I thought we had discussed all of that, and moved on. Just because he has chosen to return to Paris, does not mean he felt comfortable returning to the garrison. We just have to convince him he is wrong.' The idea revitalised his enthusiasm, and even Porthos began to smile.

'Just as long as I don't have to carry his bleedin' carcass home again…' he chortled, though both men secretly hoped he was right.

oOo

Athos took the back streets, blood boiling that he had not been able to conclude what he had started – he had let the landlord down. Bewildered, he found himself standing in the street between Monsieur René's and The Red Barrel. He didn't care about the quality of the wine anymore, just how much he could consume to make the memory go away. He pushed open the door and, making his way over to his usual table, signalled for a bottle of wine. The landlord set it down and left him to it, though not before he had received payment. Athos suspected the man had seen enough tortured souls to recognise when a man planned to drink himself into oblivion, and knew to make them settle up first.

He downed the first glass in one go and poured another, trying desperately to think of something else, anything – but his thoughts kept coming back to her.

Having picked himself up off the floor, he had rushed straight to the tavern, kidding himself the distraction would erase the memory. What an utter fool he had been, erase what had just happened? Never. He could hardly still his own hands at the thought of it, and only now, as he sat in the darkness of the inn, could he really let himself begin to react to the shock. Another glass, and another. Still he could smell her on his shirt, on his skin, and feel her fingers along his jaw. Groaning inwardly, he sent for another bottle and began to work his way through that. How could she still live? He had thought himself mad, beginning to doubt his own memories, but all those moments, the smell of her perfume, it had been real, all of it. If only he could understand what he felt, sort out the emotions running through his head.

When she had touched him, stood so close, the loneliness, the existence of which he had denied for so long, had become overwhelming. Just to hold another, to feel the warmth of her embrace, had been more than he could withstand. But it was her behaviour he could not comprehend. Surely her first intent had been to harm him, the knife was proof of that. And then she had changed her mind, but why? Did she, too, feel the same loneliness, the emotional isolation that was slowly eating away inside him? Did she suffer alone in the dark as did he? He could not decide whether the possibility that each of them shared the same torment, the same terrors in the night, was a comfort, or just another sign of his own shallow weakness.

The second bottle was empty. Suddenly he shivered, and lifted his head, though it felt heavy, and his eyes beginning to blur. There it was again, the slightest of breezes, as though the air around him was colder. Perhaps he was going mad, or perhaps the dead really were visiting him tonight. He stood and walked over to the bar, focusing on the landlord, who observed his approach. Coin exchanged hands and Athos carried the two bottles outside. The air was cold, and the mist from earlier appeared to have evaporated, though he could no longer rely on what he saw before his own eyes. Desolate, he gazed up at the sky. It was clear, and the moon shone brightly upon the sleeping city, the stars twinkling brightly in the inky darkness. He should have been able to appreciate their beauty, but strangely they merely increased his anger.

How dare anything behave normally tonight? How dare the stars gleam in the heavens and the moon continue to shine? Nothing was normal anymore, for what pitiful existence he had managed to salvage from his former life, she had once again shattered.

He raised the bottle in fury, making to smash it to the ground, a strangled sob ripping from his throat. No, he would drain it down to the dregs, for he knew they would still come; he could feel them in the very air, watching waiting, appearing when he was at his lowest ebb, when he could not deny them; though now there would be one less – she was not dead. But as the tears slipped from his tired eyes, he knew she would still come.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

She reached her room and collapsed, her breathing still fast, and her heart continuing to thunder in her chest. She hardly dared consider what had just happened. She leant against the wall, her legs still shaking and weak, and slowly she slid down, until she sat shivering upon the floor, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her head rested upon her knees as agonising sobs slowly wracked her frame, until she felt she no longer had the strength to cry. She had once believed she would never shed tears again, she certainly hoped never to feel such desolation. Yet now she was hollow once more; where her revenge had burnt bright, lighting the darkest hours of her life, now there was the pain of confusion. Her path was no longer clear –nothing was clear. Love, hate, life, death – she did not know what she wanted. She only knew how she had felt, how he had made her feel. It had taken almost nothing – the merest stare, his arrogant tone, his refusal to back down – and her resolution had deserted her, her hate melting away with the evening mist.

But there was no hope, no way forward, only a painful limbo in which they must both exist, a reality in which they would both hate and desire one another; where they would have to acknowledge each other's nearness, and yet maintain a separation. It could not happen again, she would not let him get so close in future – she could not allow her emotions, or his, to overrule her senses. What she desired, and what she would allow, would have to remain forever separate, two halves of a whole that could never be.

oOo

Aramis and Porthos ate their supper and decided to return to the garrison; Porthos did not even feel like playing a game of cards.

'Where do you think he is?' Aramis asked after they had walked in silence for some time. Porthos shrugged.

''E could be anywhere, things aren't as bad this time, e's probably found 'imself some rooms.' Though he tried to sound convincing, they both accepted that, knowing Athos, this was not necessarily the case.

'Should we tell Treville?' the marksman persisted. Porthos frowned but eventually nodded.

'I think we should, it's only fair. After all, 'e might 'ave some idea where we could find 'im.' Aramis brightened at the suggestion, and the two men hurried through the garrison arch.

The light still burnt in Treville's office, and the two men wondered if he had slept at all since the King's announcement. The sudden outbreak of sickness in the garrison meant that most of the reconnaissance that had been due to begin that morning had been delayed. One or two of the more far-reaching destinations had been reassigned, due to the length of time it would take to ride there and back. However, the Captain had held off sending Aramis and Porthos, as with so many men ill, added to those sent on their mission, he wanted them close at hand – just in case.

He sat at his desk, head resting in his hands. His eyes were tired, and place names which were normally familiar to him swam across the page, as if they were unknown or foreign destinations. He heard the tread of boots upon the stair and, for once, welcomed the interruption– until he saw who entered.

As fond as he was of these two men, experience had taught him that when they knocked late at night, he needed to prepare himself. At best, he would hear some fantastical tale, that would leave him speechless, at worst… well, at worst, his reaction was usually the same – only with added stress.

To his surprise, Aramis and Porthos both appeared to be in a good mood, Aramis in particular seemed almost jubilant.

'How can I help?' Treville asked. If he sounded abrupt, Aramis was aware that it was merely the result of too little rest. Before either of them could answer, Treville sat straighter in his chair and, for the first time in days, his expression lightened.

'Where?' was all he asked, hoping he was not wrong.

'Outside The Fleece,' Aramis answered, Porthos no longer able to stop himself from emitting a deep chuckle.

'He kinda fell out,' said Porthos, attempting to give a clear report of events and failing. Treville frowned, his worst fears edging closer to the front of his mind. Aramis noted the Captain's concern and jumped in.

'Not like that, at least I don't think so,' Aramis clarified. 'He can fight pretty well drunk, but tonight it was quite evident he was sober.' He turned to Porthos for confirmation, and the big man nodded in agreement.

'Yeah, the two men he was after were losing, when the Red Guards turned up to spoil his fun, as usual.' This time Treville looked aghast.

'Not again?' the Captain moaned. Aramis and Porthos chuckled and Treville felt his anxiety lessen, as the two men would not be laughing if their friend was languishing in the Châtelet for a second time.

'No, this time he had the sense to run, which is one reason why I believe he was sober. Drunk, he would have taken them all on. We, too, decided that it was not our fight to explain, so we left them to deal with the casualties. However, we did return to The Fleece for supper and asked a few questions. It would appear that our reluctant friend has stumbled across a protection racket, here in Paris!' Aramis awaited the Captain's reaction. He was not disappointed.

Treville was angry. 'Why did we not know about this?'

The two men shrugged their shoulders. 'The way they work leaves the victims too scared to tell anyone what is happening. Athos probably noticed them in more than one tavern, you know what he is like – even drunk he does not miss much. He would be in the right place, at the right time, if you know what I mean.' Porthos appeared to become pensive at this thought. None of them liked to think of their friend returning to his old ways.

'Where is he now?' Treville demanded. The two Musketeers exchanged glances, Porthos pouted, scowling hard, and Aramis' buoyant mood deflated.

'We do not know. He ran, I do not believe he even noticed us, he was rather occupied at the time,' Aramis explained.

'Treville became thoughtful, realising that Athos would be an enormous asset in planning and foreseeing potential problems during the King's tour. If the Captain was correct about his background, then he may have extra insight which would prove invaluable.

'I want him found!' Treville barked. Aramis was about to speak when a look from the Captain silenced him. 'This is Athos we are discussing, how many places are there where you would be likely to find him? He is a man of particular habits – even in Paris it cannot be hard.' Porthos grinned and Treville rolled his eyes. 'That is not permission to devote your time to playing cards in taverns, Porthos. I have enough men sick already, and I do not want to lose any more. Report back when you have him – and make it quick.' He added this last order with a look that clearly said, before he does anything stupid, his tone implying a level of concern which both men understood. He again turned his concentration to the maps on his desk and the two Musketeers knew they had been dismissed.

'He made it sound easy,' Aramis complained, running his hands through his long hair.

Porthos grinned. 'It is easy,' he said, and winked at his friend as they descended the stairs together. Aramis thumped the big Musketeer's arm and Porthos laughed loudly, the reassuring noise eliciting a smile from their tired Captain, alone in his office, still revelling in the latest news.

'Think, what does Athos care for, far more than himself?' Porthos asked.

Aramis scowled. 'Apart from wine I…' He paused, and his expression altered from confused to enlightened. 'Roger!' And with that, he headed toward the archway, not bothering to wait for Porthos' confirmation.

'Woah!' Porthos shouted, grasping the excited Musketeer by the arm. 'It's late, and there is a good chance he is well into… well, God knows how many bottles by now. I'm not sure we would be welcome. Let him sleep it off.' Feeling anxious, Aramis urged his friend to reconsider.

'What if he is gone by the morning, Porthos? I do not think I could stand it.' Aramis grabbed his friend's arm, his face bleak with the possibility of Athos having been so near then disappearing once again.

Porthos patted the marksman on the shoulder. 'Trust me, after that fight, 'e is going to drink, and not just a glass. You know our friend, 'e was angry, you saw his face. When 'e's angry 'e drinks. 'E won't risk Roger by ridin' 'im while e's drunk, even if he doesn't care for his own neck. 'E will still be there.' Aramis reluctantly agreed to wait, though he knew it would be a restless night – for both of them.

oOo

When Athos awoke it was still early, though he had not managed to rise and remove himself from the stable before the farrier had begun to ready his forge for the day. He could hear the clanking of metal on metal as he tried to remember where he was, until a soft whinny and a gentle nudge, along with the sharp scratching of the straw on his face, reminded him of his sleeping arrangements. Then, as if that had opened the flood gates of his memory, the events of the previous day came rushing from the dark recesses of his mind, where he had attempted to banish them. Like a tidal wave crashing onto the shore, the sudden realisation threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled to order what had happened, but only one thing emerged clear and dominant. She was alive.

God, how he wished it had been a dream. For once he would have gladly fought off the pain and the anguish, had it only been his fevered sleep. However, he was only too aware that she had been very real. He could still feel her lips on his and, no matter how hard he screwed his eyes closed, she was still there, emerging from the mist to stand in front of him, smiling that smile, the one she kept only for him – or so she had always said. How could the man he had trusted to carry out the task of killing her have betrayed him so badly? He laughed to himself; of course, he had had no choice, when she had begged for her life, the poor man would not have stood a chance. Athos should have stayed, should have been brave enough to see it through; instead he had taken the coward's way out and left it for someone else to witness. He peered over the stable door and saw that the old man was busy talking with a customer. Athos let himself out of the stall, turning to fondle the horse's nose. 'It looks as if we must move on again, old friend. I cannot stay in Paris knowing she is here. I cannot see her again, I cannot.' Roger tossed his head, as if in compete agreement.

'Monsieur Athos, I did not see you arrive, forgive me. Are you taking our fine friend out this morning?' The man was well aware where Athos had spent the night – the fact he still had straw attached to his rather unkempt hair was a rather telling sign. Still, the farrier had grown rather fond of the taciturn young man, and did not wish to cause him distress. If he wished to sleep with his horse, René could think of worse places where he could choose to spend the night.

Athos could still feel the sharp straw down the back of his shirt, and suspected from the concerned look on Monsieur René's face, that he was fully aware of his sleeping arrangements. However, he appreciated the man's discretion.

'Good morning, Monsieur René.' He squinted slightly as, despite his hat, the morning still felt unnaturally bright, and he found talking difficult, his mouth dry, his tongue too big. He was grateful when a voice hailed the farrier and the man departed, leaving him with a cheery goodbye.

Athos was hardly awake, his head throbbed, and even holding it beneath ice-cold water until his lungs burst for air had not helped. He leant against the door of Roger's stall, trying to piece together the images and memories whirling around inside his head. Some were mere fragments of dreams, souls that tormented him at night invading his peace. But this morning he knew that not all of them were figments of his guilt-ridden imagination – though he wished they were.

He hung his head, reliving the encounter over and over, hoping somehow it would diminish, or fade like last night's nightmares.

But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts could not break away from the events of the previous evening. He could not fathom what had occurred, how she had gone from lifeless and buried, to be encased in his arms once more. He could not even claim confusion, he had surpassed that state, and was completely lost. What was he supposed to feel? Happy? Horrified? Ashamed? He had no comprehension of how to deal with what had happened. He did not know how to carry on; she was his wife, she still lived, how did they exist in the same place knowing what each had done? He could not reason over it any longer, the very thought of it beginning to develop into a physical pain, a deep ache that tore at his body and soul. He needed to be numb, no longer able to think, it was the only way he could cope. Stumbling out into the bustling street, he let his feet lead him to the nearest tavern – should it be the Red Barrel, then so be it.

oOo

Aramis awoke with a start. He had struggled to sleep, just as he had known he would; anticipating the beginning of a mission, or an important event, always hampered his sleep. However, knowing that by waiting until morning, their search may result in complete failure, had been almost painful.

Porthos had not slept at all. He had tried for an hour or two, but in the end, he had given up. In fact, he had sat on their bench, beneath Treville's window, for much of the night. The sky had been clear, stars twinkling high in the heavens, unaware of the turmoil suffered below them in the mortal world.

It had been he who had persuaded Aramis to wait, and if Athos was no longer there in the morning, he did not know how his friend would cope. Since Savoy, he had been overly sensitive to those he considered close, mainly Porthos, but Athos had soon been assimilated into his cloak of protection. When he had chosen to leave, Aramis had been hurt deeply, despite defending his actions to an angry Porthos. Aramis was a brave and gallant soldier, but he was fragile in ways others would not comprehend – Porthos knew that, and he suspected Athos did too. No, the morning could not come soon enough, and if Athos had left, he would be to blame.

Having dressed, Aramis bounded down the stairs to the garrison courtyard, stopping abruptly when he found Porthos with his head upon his arms, fast asleep. Grinning, he shook the big man awake.

'Good morning. Are you making an early start, or was it a very late night?' Porthos squinted, finding the morning sun very bright, especially as he had only had an hour's rest at most.

'Couldn't sleep,' came the gruff reply. 'What time is it?' Aramis shrugged and consulted the pocket watch he always kept about his person.

'A little after seven. Have you already eaten?' Aramis asked, hoping Porthos was not going to delay them for too long.

'Nah, it can wait, come on let's go.' Aramis was delighted, though the fact that Porthos was prepared to forego breakfast, was not lost on him; nor was the indication that he had obviously been up all night.

Neither man spoke as they walked through the waking city. Paris was never truly still, even in the depths of the night; as well as the sounds from nocturnal animals, there were those humans who stalked the darkness to ply their trade or prey off those unfortunate enough to still be abroad at night. But, like most cities, it awoke early, and for many it was their busiest time of day, with deliveries arriving from outlying farms or the nearest ports. Market traders lay out their wares, making the most of the longer hours of daylight during spring – April was now close at hand, and the sun rose early.

Porthos thought it had been some time since he had heard Aramis remain quiet for so long, but he understood the man's mood and chose not to interrupt his thoughts. Both men quickened their stride the closer they got to the farrier's yard, both of them fearing they would find an empty stable.

Aramis dashed through the farrier's paraphernalia, heading straight for the stall where he prayed he would find Roger and, with luck, his master too. His heart soared when he recognised the proud black head nodding over the half door.

'Roger, good boy. Are you alone?' Aramis peered into the dim interior of the stable, but all he could make out was hay, no sleeping figure curled within. He stroked the horse's long velvet nose and turned to face Porthos. The big Musketeer did not need to ask, the look of anguish upon Aramis' face told him all he needed to know.

'Roger is here, so Athos will be in the city somewhere. We just 'ave to find him.' He slapped Aramis on the back, eliciting a wan smile. 'Where shall we begin?' Porthos attempted to sound positive. In Paris, looking for a man who did not wish to be found was almost impossible, but then Athos did not know anyone was looking for him. The two men appraised the busy street, where carts and horses all went about their business, unaware of the urgent search getting underway.

'I suppose, if the worst has happened, we may as well begin with the taverns,' Aramis acknowledged. 'I doubt 'e would have been best pleased after last night.' Porthos snorted in agreement.

'E didn't look exactly 'appy when 'e practically fell on top of us, and that was before the Red Guard showed up.' Aramis supported his friend's statement with a frown. 'May as well begin at the beginning. If 'e was desperate, he wouldn't have gone far,' Porthos surmised, unaware of just how accurate he was. 'Let us begin with our favourite establishment, The Red Barrel.'

It was horribly early to consume wine in the quantities Athos was intending – in fact half the bottle had vanished already, with another full cup disappearing rapidly after that. He did not even lift his head when the door opened, the devil could have entered, and he would not have given a damn. He did not want to care about anything, or anyone anymore; the pain of hurt and betrayal was simply too much to bear. Better to feel nothing, than live with a world of agony, so he was totally unprepared for the hand that stilled his goblet in mid-air.

'Woah, isn't it a little early for a wine breakfast?' Porthos' rumbling voice only just punctured the fog of self-pity that Athos was currently wallowing in, but he did not react, simply staring up at the big man, his face void of any emotion.

Aramis had been overjoyed when he had set eyes on the familiar leather-clad figure seated at the rear of the room, though the bowed head posture, along with the flagon of wine, was not a good sign at a little past eight in the morning. He glanced at Porthos and began to increase his pace, but the big man put out a restraining hand and shook his head. As they neared the table, Porthos stepped forward and, reaching for his friend's hand, halted the arc of the cup he was about to drain. When Athos lifted his head, both men felt the impact of the man's anguish like a physical blow. His eyes were red rimmed and his expression, though blank, showed a level of desolation they had never seen him display before. They had realised that he had been in a dark place when they had first met him, but it was nothing to the misery he exhibited now. Porthos almost physically recoiled, but kept his hand steady. Athos said nothing but shook off the restraint, draining what was left in the cup. He stared at the bottom, as if hoping for some revelation, some sign of what to do next, then appearing disappointed, reached for the bottle. When Porthos moved it away from his grasp, he was not ready for what happened next. The gesture was akin to placing a flame to a barrel of gunpowder – Athos exploded. He stood abruptly, his fist catching a completely unprepared Porthos in the jaw.

Athos obviously being intent on continuing his attack, Aramis finally sprang to life. The sight of his friend's sorrow had momentarily stunned him, but as Porthos lurched backward into the empty tables and Athos moved forward, instinct prevailed. He grabbed the man's arms, pinning them to his sides.

'Athos, it is Aramis. Stop! We have not come here to fight. Stop it!' Athos took no notice, it was as if he were somewhere else, fighting an invisible army, instead of a single Musketeer. Staggering to his feet, Porthos rubbed his jaw, his eyes filling with sorrow. He had underestimated Athos' state of mind, and he could see now that this was not just one more drunken night, this was something much worse.

He gazed intently into the man's eyes and what he saw terrified him more than anything he had ever faced before. They were empty – there was no emotion, no fear, no anger, nothing. Athos still struggled and Aramis was beginning to lose his grip.

'Athos, Athos, can you hear me?' Aramis was now shouting, having given up on subtlety. Porthos shook his head and approached the pair, whereupon Athos began to struggle all the more, and the big man raised his hands to show he meant no harm.

'I'm not sure he can hear you,' he managed, though his jaw was very tender – Athos always had packed quite a punch. Suddenly, just a he was considering knocking the man out for his own good, Athos slumped against Aramis' chest, all the fight vanishing from him in an instant, leaving just a shattered and empty shell held tightly in Aramis' arms. The two men exchanged worried expressions. Porthos came closer, but this time Athos did not react. He was not sure which was worse, angry Athos, or this version of the man, who appeared to be somewhere else entirely, completely unaware of his surroundings.

Aramis gently steered Athos to his seat and sat beside him whilst Athos continued to stare at the floor, his face expressionless.

'Athos, what has happened? Are you hurt?' For a moment Aramis panicked, for it would not be the first time the swordsman had concealed or played down an injury until it was almost too late. His eyes scanned the obvious parts he could see, but there was no sign of blood from a head injury, and none upon his hands. As he studied the long, elegant fingers, he noticed Athos turning and turning a ring, round and round, over and over. It was an object he had noted before, having had to remove it some months ago, when Athos had fallen from a third-floor window at the palace, sustaining many lacerations. Now the ring was back on, but he had never noticed Athos pay it any attention before. He surmised that the obsessive gesture was just another sign of the man's deep anxiety.

Aramis looked to Porthos for guidance. 'What should we do?' Porthos frowned, giving the question due thought.

'Will he come back to the garrison?' the big man asked hopefully. 'Perhaps Treville can get through to him.' The mention of the Captain's name seemed to penetrate Athos' mental trauma.

'No!' he croaked. Finally, he looked up at the two men. 'Please,' was all he said. Both Musketeers stilled, neither of them could remember ever hearing Athos say please. It was not that the man was rude – well not intentionally so – he just had a way of avoiding certain social graces mostly, it seemed, because he usually preferred to communicate by facial expression alone, rather than verbally. Now, the broken word emerging from the man's mouth was agonising to hear. Porthos sank down on Athos' other side, all three sitting in silence. Eventually, Athos sighed.

'I am sorry.' He did not look at Porthos in particular, and it was difficult to know what self-imposed crime he was apologising for. Leaving without saying goodbye? Not sending word he was well? Staying away? Or hitting Porthos in the face? Neither man wanted an apology for any of them. In the end it was Porthos who broke the impasse.

'I'm starvin', we missed breakfast hunting your sorry arse. Serge won't keep it warm for ever. How about we go back for sumthin' to eat? At the very least you can sit and watch.' Athos stirred slightly but said nothing. Aramis stood, whilst Porthos applied just the slightest pressure to Athos' elbow, encouraging him to stand also. For a moment, he remained immovable, then, without warning, suddenly became compliant and rose alongside the other two men. As they left the tavern, Athos pulled his hat low to block the glare from his tired and sore eyes. They walked as quickly as Athos would allow, Porthos still having hold of his friend's arm, as if he was not quite sure he would follow without being guided. When they approached the garrison archway, Athos halted. He stood appraising the home of the regiment he had been deemed unworthy of joining. Walking back inside was painful – another failure, another reminder of being rejected. A young woman passed close by, her derisive laugh echoing in the open space. Athos flinched, transported instantly back to the scene of his nightmares.

'Why do you look so surprised husband? Did you think I loved you, did you really believe I would marry you for love? This... this is what I wanted, this house, this title, this estate – not you, never you. He was back in Pinion; he was standing in the meadow, she was dressed in white, small blue flowers in her hair. She was laughing, mocking him, rubbing his heartbreak in his face. The image wavered. Now she was crying, pleading. 'Athos, oh God, Athos, please. It is all lies. I love you, I have always loved you, I will only ever love you. No matter what you do to me, it will change nothing. You are murdering me for nothing. There is only the truth of us, nothing matters before us, and if I die you will have no future, there will only ever be us. Please God, do not do this!' He heard her cry, diminishing, echoing. Now there was mist, he was back in the alley again, she was stroking his face, his lips. He had her in his arms, real, solid – he was kissing her. Oh God! He was lost.

Aramis had noted Athos' expression change to one of confusion, his eyes had closed, and a small groan of pain escaped his lips. Again, Aramis panicked, convinced his friend must be ill.

'Athos what is wrong, are you in pain?' Athos heard the question, and he wanted to laugh, it was funny, the most ridiculous question he had ever heard. Was he in pain? No, he was not; he was pain.

Both Musketeers now started to become alarmed, this was out of their experience, and Athos was slowly becoming more and more agitated. His eyes darted in all directions and his breathing was rapidly increasing. He turned to Aramis, his eyes full of anguish, grabbing hold of his jacket in both hands and gripping it tightly.

'Make her leave me alone. I do not know what she wants any more. I cannot go back, it is too late.' Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and his legs buckled. Porthos, as always, was ready, halting Athos' fall before he could hit the floor. He glanced at Aramis, his face full of questions.

'Get him back to the garrison.' The two men dashed toward the archway, Porthos carrying an unconscious Athos over his shoulder. As they entered the garrison, Porthos turned towards the infirmary.

'No!' Aramis shouted, 'Take him to my room. He hates the infirmary, and in any case, I fear he has no physical injury that the infirmary can heal.' Porthos nodded, and together they bought Athos to the quiet of Aramis' room. It was near the chapel, a peaceful spot, and many a night he had been grateful for the uninterrupted silence the location had granted him. Now he was even more grateful. He had no idea what ailed Athos, but he did not wish the rest of the garrison to become aware of his friend's distress.

Treville had witnessed their arrival and followed close on their heels, reaching Aramis' room just after them.

'What happened?' he barked, not daring to look too closely, as had he seen Athos arrive back at the garrison half dead too many times. The fact they had not headed to the infirmary was encouraging, though the idea of him insensible this early in the morning was not encouraging either. 'Is he drunk?'

Porthos bridled, 'No 'e isn't, 'e's…' He glanced at Aramis, unsure what to say. Aramis waited as Porthos settled Athos on the bed, then began to unbutton his doublet, still needing to reassure himself he was not injured. No blood, no wound he could see, though he could clearly see Athos' ribs, that was for certain. He had not been eating, but then he hardly ever did, even when well. He felt around his head for signs of a bump, nothing. Sighing, he finally sat back on his heels.

'There does not appear to be any physical injury. I almost wish there were. I do not know what ails him.' Treville was losing patience.

'I ask again, what happened?' Porthos answered this time.

'I don't really know. We found 'im in the Red Barrel, 'e 'ad worked his way down a bottle of wine. 'E didn't speak, nothin'. I tried to stop 'im drinking anymore and 'e, 'e just erupted, then, just like that, 'e calmed down. Came away with us a meek as a kitten, though 'e still said nothin'. But his face...' Porthos paused, as if the memory were too painful. Aramis took up the story.

'Something has happened, but I do not know what, perhaps a trauma of some kind. He simply walked with us to the garrison, Porthos led him like a child.' Treville listened, horrified by the events unfolding before him. Aramis continued. 'We were almost at the garrison gates when he stopped, something changed, scared him, the gates perhaps.'

'No,' Porthos interrupted, 'It was not the gates, I think it was the woman.' He eyed Aramis, who looked puzzled. 'There was a woman, with a group of people, she was laughin'. 'E looked at her and 'is face changed. 'E left us, went somewhere else. Then 'e collapsed. It don't 'elp that 'e's probably starvin' and has a terrible 'angover. I can still smell last night's wine.' All three men eyed Athos and, as they did so, he began to stir.

'Give us a moment, gentlemen, if you please.' Treville ordered. Aramis hesitated but nodded his consent, and he and Porthos left the room.

Athos opened his eyes. For a moment his confusion returned – faces, names, laughing, crying, his head was so muddled. Gradually, things began to clear, one face remained constant, a face he recognised, respected, and trusted.

'Captain,' he managed to mutter. He began to raise himself up from the bed, but Treville placed a restraining arm on the young man's shoulder.

'Stay where you are, you look awful. When was the last time you ate?' Athos was taken aback, it was not the response he had expected. He appeared confused. Eaten? Why would he care about food?

Treville softened his approach, aware that he was taking out his own fear upon the man. 'What happened Athos? You were so much better.' He sat beside the bed, awaiting an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he sighed. That the young man harboured a bitter pain was evident by his face; his skin was pale, his eyes pink, and his dark hair and lashes only served to emphasise his lack of colour. 'Stay here and rest, I will instruct Serge to send up some food. Aramis and Porthos will stay with you. I will return later. Perhaps then you will feel like talking.' He placed his hand on Athos' shoulder. 'It is good to have you back, son.' As the Captain turned toward the door, Athos' eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly the garrison felt like a safe harbour in a terrible storm, one he could not ride, control or hope to overcome on his own.

As Treville left, so Aramis and Porthos entered. For the first time since they had encountered him in the tavern, Athos appeared to focus on them, and to realise that they were really there. Aramis was first in the room, over to the bed and holding Athos in a tight embrace. For a moment there was no reaction, then at last he returned the gesture, which was all the more poignant for its rarity – Athos never having before shown himself to be a tactile person. Porthos followed, hugging Athos to him as though he were a treasured possession. When they were done, all three simply stared at each other in silence.

'I hit you, I am sorry, I was not myself,' Athos whispered at last. Porthos smiled and rubbed his chin.

'That's alright. You pack quite a punch, next time I will just let you drink.' Athos gave the merest twitch of the lips but, after his behaviour earlier, it was tantamount to an exhibition of joy, and the two men took it as reassurance that he was going to be alright.

But once again Athos slipped back into silence, threatening to withdraw to that distant place once more. Aramis and Porthos exchanged nods.

'I'm going to find food, I'm starvin', thanks to you. I'll bring us sumthin' back and you will feel better.' Aramis smiled, understanding what the big man was trying to do. Once the door had closed, he pulled a chair up close and sat by the bed, where Athos was now leaning against the pillows. His face showed a little more colour, but he could hardly be described as a picture of health.

'So, mon ami, what is wrong? I suggest it is time, do you not think, that you explained to me the significance of the jasmine.'


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Aramis had been waiting to hold this conversation ever since he had denied smelling the fragrance of jasmine at the Château at Rambouillet, and he had felt guilty ever since. For a moment, he wondered if he had been in error bringing the subject up. As Athos looked at him in response to the statement, the expression on his face, initially one of shock, was followed by utter desperation.

Athos dropped his head and stared at his hands, turning the ring over and over once again. Aramis leant forward until their foreheads touched.

'I am not asking you to divulge your secrets, a man's past is his own, but the pain you are carrying is too heavy for one man, it is breaking you, Athos, tearing you apart from the inside. I am no stranger to that kind of agony, and believe me it helps to talk about it, to let a friend share the burden – if you do not, it will consume you.' Aramis spoke quietly and slowly, unsure whether or not Athos was listening. There was silence for a moment, and then the swordsman spoke.

'It is my burden to carry, of my own creation, I should feel the pain, it is part of who I am, of whom I have become.' The voice that spoke was not the Athos they had come to know. Gone was the insolent tone, with the confident arrogance that made him stand out from many of the regiment – now it was ragged and broken, as though the words were being torn from his throat. Aramis searched for the right advice to give, aware that, if he took the wrong path, Athos would retreat inside himself and they would have lost the chance to reach him.

'It is obvious something of great import has occurred, mon ami, I do not believe this is the result of what happened here at the garrison. Though wrong and unfair, I believe you were strong enough to weather the disappointment. I believe this is something more powerful. I ask you again, is it the woman with the jasmine scent?' He waited, his heart beating fast. If Athos refused to talk now, he did not know how else to get through to him. Raising his head Athos held Aramis' gaze.

'I do not how… how to begin.' His eyes held the pleading quality of a frightened child, and Aramis could not contain his compassion. He pulled Athos into a tight embrace and felt the man sink his head onto his shoulder, the man's body shuddering as though wracked with a fever. Aramis held him until he appeared to calm, then released him slowly, until he could look into his eyes.

'I will not judge you Athos. I know the kind of man you are and nothing you can say will change that. I fear that whatever haunts you, you have judged yourself too harshly.' Athos listened to Aramis' declaration. This time he could not help the snort of derision, his response to the inaccuracy of the statement. Judged yourself too harshly, how could he admit to his list of crimes and Aramis not think ill of him? Yet to share the burden would be a blessing, to speak of his wrongdoings aloud and feel them leave the dark room, where he kept them locked inside his soul. Perhaps once they were free, they would not return, maybe it would let in the light, and he would feel the weight of the guilt lift from his heart. Could it help? How would he even begin to tell the story? There were parts he was not yet ready to reveal; his identity was his own, it was not relevant, it was of no import.

Aramis waited patiently, aware of the chasm Athos needed to cross in order to say the words he needed to say, to enable him to share his load. He walked over to the cupboard, reached for a bottle of wine and, pouring it into two cups, he passed one to Athos. The swordsman did not drink the liquid, though he nodded his appreciation; instead he simply held it, watching the blood red wine as if its presence alone would supply him with the strength he needed. The silence lengthened, but still Aramis stayed unmoving, sipping his own drink in an attempt to make his friend feel relaxed. Then Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

'I once told you there was a woman. I loved her very much – no, that is wrong…' he paused, considering the statement. 'She was everything, our love consumed us, controlled everything we did, said, wanted. We were not whole if we were not together, apart we were diminished. I neglected the rest of my life – it was nothing compared to being with her. What we had was so powerful it was like being caught up in a storm. Perhaps it was not meant to last, could not continue, maybe there was too much passion for one mind to contain. Then, out of the blue, she betrayed me, betrayed my trust, my love for her. She committed a most heinous crime, for which she had to pay.'

His voice was beginning to break, but Aramis dared not intervene, so enthralled in by the tale as he was. 'She died by my hand, I had no choice.' He almost cried the words, holding his head in his hands as though the memory was too heavy to hold inside his mind. 'I watched her die, and my world died with her… No, that is not accurate. I did not see her lifeless body, did not even have the courage to stay with her until the end; I could not face the result of my actions.

'For two years I thought she was dead. Only at night did she come to me, smiling, crying, screaming my name, blaming me for her end, begging me to forgive her, declaring her love, over and over, until the dark became a torment I could no longer endure. Then I came to Paris. At the flogging I thought I saw her in the crowd, then I would smell her scent in an empty room, on the evening breeze. I thought I was going mad, that my guilt was getting a revenge of its own. Until I saw her.' He looked at Aramis now, his voice taking on a new sense of urgency, almost madness.

'I was in an alley in the city, it was evening, and a mist was hanging in the air. She began to walk toward me. I was numb, thinking she must be a spectre, coming to drag me with her to hell. Then she was standing right before me – as close as you are now – solid, pale and beautiful, her smile just as before. When she reached out to touch me, I was prepared for the cold hand of death to chill my bones. Cold she was, but her skin was soft, palpable, she was as whole as you and I. When she spoke to me, it was not the broken nonsense of a dream, but real words.

'Then, I do not know what happened, but she was in my arms.' The urgency had gone from his voice, and he was slowly rocking to and fro, wrapping his arms around himself, as if to prevent his body from breaking apart. 'When I kissed her, she was warm, just as before, I could not deny her; so long had I thought her dead, so long had I been alone. The need was as powerful as it had always been, the very fires of hell could not be more consuming. Just as I was becoming lost in her once more, she was gone. I do not know what I did, but she pulled away; she was terrified, she turned and ran. I could not follow, I could not do anything.

'Now I know I was wrong, she is not dead, not a cold corpse lying in the ground, she is alive and whole. She hates me, I know, as part of me hates her. But there is still love, I know it, I feel it again as I once did, but I do not know how to deal with it, with her. How can we exist? How can we go on, two parts of the same whole, needing, wanting to be reunited with the other half of ourselves, yet at the same time repulsed at the very thought of it, afraid of going back, of feeling again? What do I do, how can I stay, how can I go on?' The final question came out as a strangled whisper. Athos held on to Aramis' arms, beseeching him to supply an answer, yet knowing there was none – knowing he was lost.

Aramis was speechless. He guessed there was so much more Athos had not disclosed – the story was full of gaps – but he had heard enough to begin to understand the man he saw before him. The man who spent his nights writhing in mental agony, who preferred to drink himself into oblivion rather than subject himself to his darkened visitations. That a man like Athos would love with a ferocity that was close to obsession, did not surprise him. He was a man who appeared calm and removed, but Aramis understood that his controlled demeanour hid a tempestuous nature, and that he would love with a powerful passion was again no surprise. The story, however, was a tragic tale, full of torment and desperation, and now he understood why Athos was so torn apart, so damaged. To believe her dead for all those years, then to suddenly see her appear out of the mist, only to fall back so easily into the need for her that he had felt in his former life. He could almost feel the soul-wrenching agony that emitted from the man, but what terrified Aramis more, was knowing how to help him. What did a man say to another who had experienced such emotional trauma? What answer could he give him? What hope?

Athos was exhausted. He had observed the marksman's expression closely, as Aramis' face reflected the horror he felt as he had told his story. He watched as his friend began to withdraw, as he began to understand the monster he saw before him. Athos was not surprised, what else had he expected? He had been wrong, he did not feel unburdened, there was no light in that dark, locked room, just jeering laughter at his own naivety, his childish desperation for forgiveness. He would not be forgiven – absolution was not for men such as him. Aramis was a good man, he would try to speak the necessary words to make his friend feel better, but inside he would recoil, sickened by the inhumane treatment Athos had doled out to the woman he had purported to love.

His head throbbed and his stomach threatened to revolt; he collapsed back onto the bed, his eyes suddenly heavy and tired. Aramis was talking, words that sounded soothing and kind, his hands stroking the strands of hair that stuck to his warm cheeks, to the tracks of his tears. He heard the rhythmic sound of Aramis' voice, but the words held no meaning, and they drifted away down a dark tunnel until there was nothing but silence.

Aramis was glad Athos had fallen asleep, as it was obvious that the man was thoroughly exhausted. He waited a moment or two, until he was sure the swordsman was not going to awaken, before slipping quietly out of the room. Porthos had been waiting outside, as he had realised that Athos was unlikely to talk in front of both of them. He understood that Aramis and the swordsman had a particular bond, and that Athos would talk to Aramis, and then allow the marksman to pass the information on to him. Athos was not a man who liked an audience, so he had stood outside the room waiting patiently. He may have slipped down to the refectory for some bread and cheese, but then Athos would not expect him to starve.

When Aramis finally emerged from the room he did not need to speak.

'That bad?' Porthos asked, looking at his friend's face. Aramis nodded, still unable to find the words to explain what he had heard.

As the two men stood on the balcony, Porthos placed his hand on Aramis' shoulder, the solid weight reassuring, grounding Aramis back into the reality of the garrison and away from Athos' haunted nightmares.

'I think I can only communicate this once,' Aramis admitted quietly, 'so perhaps it would be better to tell it in the Captain's office.' Porthos raised a brow, but said nothing, simply turning around and heading back down the stairs to the courtyard.

Treville heard the knock upon the door, and something about it put him on edge. Two men had approached the door, and he could only assume it was Porthos and Aramis, yet the knock had been reluctant, unlike the usual exuberance shown by the two Musketeers. The sound was almost reverent, causing him to fear that the news would not be good.

'Come.' Aramis heard the usual command and opened the door, and as he went to enter the room, he knew that he would rather be doing anything other than what he was about to do now. To repeat the details Athos had just shared with him simply felt wrong. Even though there had been no entreaty to keep the information to himself, no plea for secrecy, he still felt that he was betraying a trust, betraying a man who had already been so badly damaged by treachery.

They trooped inside, Aramis standing in front of the Captain's desk, Porthos next to him. Treville, like Porthos, took one look at Aramis' face and knew that something was wrong. He instructed the two men to sit, and poured three glasses of brandy whilst he sat awaiting the news. Aramis stared into his glass in much the way that Athos had done. Was this how his friend had felt, when he was trying to find the words to tell a story he knew would be as painful to hear as it was to relate? He swallowed the brandy and began to talk, the whole story tumbling out in a torrent of anguish and sorrow. When he had finished, he stared down at his empty glass, as if he, too, shared some of Athos' own self-inflicted guilt.

Porthos had tears in his eyes. For a big man he had an even bigger heart, and though he had not heard Athos tell his tale, the misery Aramis obviously felt told its own story. Treville said nothing at all, his face a stoic mask.

He had listened to the story appalled. Of course, he was in possession of other pieces of the puzzle – he knew about Athos' title, his obligations, the murdered brother. He ran his hands through his hair. Now it all began to fit, to make sense. No wonder the boy had fled.

Athos, so enamoured with this woman, had neglected everything else around him – his estate, his responsibilities, his own brother. She must have been the one to commit murder, must have been. Athos, as the law in that territory, would have had no choice but to condemn her, to sentence her to hang. That guilt alone would be enough to finish most men, but to lose a beloved brother too, one he obviously loved, had been the final straw. He carried both of their deaths around with him as if he carried their very carcasses. How he must have felt when he realised, she had evaded his punishment, he could not imagine. What did she want with him? Was breaking him her revenge, or did she believe she could win him back? What a bloody mess. No wonder Athos had become the man he was, most men would have crawled under a rock and never come out. Thank God the young man was better than that.

Aramis and Porthos sat waiting for Treville to comment. Time appeared to stand still, as all three men ached for their friend. Then the Captain reached a decision. Athos had told Aramis what he felt needed to be said. He had kept his identity and the details of the crime to himself, and therefore it was not Treville's place to pass on to the two men the additional information he himself held. If Athos chose to disclose it, so be it, but he would say nothing.

Somehow, Athos was aware he was asleep, but where his heart should have been beating slowly, and his breathing deepening with the onset of the rest he so sorely needed, his heart pulsed rapidly, and his breaths were shallow. His body tensed, as if anticipating the cries and accusations he knew would come, the clawed grasping hands attempting to drag him down to share their pit of despair. Instead there was silence, his heart began to slow, his breathing became regular, and he allowed himself to relax, to let down his guard. Whilst they remained silent, he would sleep, and be free, for a short time at least.

When he awoke, the sun was streaming in through the window. Outside he could hear the familiar sound of swordplay, amidst cries, as the men sparred and shouted words of encouragement to each other. The loud rumble of laughter he knew so well, indicated some poor wretch had just succumbed to Porthos' idea of sparring. He could not help the slightest curl of his lip in recognition of the big man's humour, though his eyes still bore the trace of anguish from before. His head felt like it belonged to him now, but his throat was so dry he could hardly swallow. On the table beside the bed stood the cup of wine Aramis had poured for him earlier. Reaching for it to slake his thirst, the recollection of his revelation exploded in his mind, hitting him like a physical blow. His hand shook as he replaced the cup, and it had nothing to do with his hangover. He could see his friend's shocked face – the horror and disappointment – following the telling of his story.

Athos closed his eyes tight, as if he could obliterate the scene from his mind's eye, but Aramis' sad eyes still burned bright in the darkness of his memory. His body told him to curl up, block out the sounds of laughter from the men below, hide away and shut out the world, but somewhere in the deepest recess of his soul, was a spark that refused to die. It was definitely neither pride nor respect, for he could not bear to catch his own reflection in the mirror, for fear he would see a coward, unworthy of either. Perhaps it was stubbornness, something inside that simply refused to lay down and die, something that forced him to keep drawing breath – whether he wanted to or not.

Rising from the bed, Athos buttoned his doublet and buckled his weapons belt and, pulling his hat firmly down over his eyes, he straightened his shoulders and left the room, preparing his battered heart for the rejection he expected was to come.

Aramis sat at the table, watching Porthos as he threw cadet, after cadet to the ground, each time emitting a roar of laughter at their surprised expressions, the mystified young men not entirely sure how they had ended up in such an undignified position.

Aramis heard footsteps upon the stair and turned, and was amazed to see Athos walking toward him. Though his face registered no emotion, it was an improvement on the last time Aramis had seen him. Though he had no doubt it still remained, at least Athos' pain was for now kept hidden. He jumped from the bench and went to meet him.

'Athos, I thought you were resting.' Before the swordsman could say or do anything to stop him, Aramis had him in a tight embrace. Though brief, it made Athos' heart soar, and as he studied his friend's face for any sign of distaste or rejection, he realised there was none, only joy. Porthos, abandoning his current victim, bounded over, he too pulling a rather shell-shocked Athos into a bear hug, almost crushing him in his exuberance.

'Bout time you put in an appearance. This lot,' he said, indicating the gaping cadets, 'don't know one end of a sword from another. Do you Guinot?' he shouted to one particularly gangly lad. The boy in question managed a grin, though his expression acknowledged the accuracy of Porthos' judgement. Some of the cadets had been lucky enough to receive Athos' tuition before he had left, though one or two were new to the regiment, Guinot amongst them. For a moment, Athos was too stunned to reply, then he quirked a brow and gave the old twitch of his lips. There was something about the smell of the garrison that was a balm to his soul, and right now he needed all the help he could get.

Aramis and Porthos practically held their breath, and Treville, who had overheard the conversation, decided to finish what Porthos had started.

'Guinot, Le Brun, show Athos how you fight.' The two young men leapt to attention and drew their swords, then, with a last look at the surly newcomer, they began to circle each other like a pair of street fighters. All three men watched Athos to see if he would take the bait, for they knew watching poor swordplay was as painful to the man as drawing a knife from a wound. They each guessed he would not be able maintain his aloof air of detachment for long. Gradually, his expression began to change, first a frown, then a deep scowl. His hand rested on the hilt of his own sword and, if had they been able to make a bet without Athos noticing, money would surely have changed hands by now.

Athos watched as the two young men made a complete mess of their fight, each of them making it quite obvious to the other when he intended to lunge or strike – they might as well have been following the steps of a dance. He realised what Porthos and the Captain were doing, and he appreciated it, though he was also aware that they were trying to draw him back into the role they had promised him before, and he knew, deep down, that he could not take it. But with just one pair of cadets, he could at least end the painful display he was being forced to endure.

Removing his hat and doublet, Athos began to move, and it was all Aramis and Porthos could do not to declare their victory to the rooftops. Athos pulled his sword from its sheath and glared at the two Musketeers.

'Do not, for one minute, think I do not know what the pair of you are up to. I will deal with them, and then I will deal with you.' He swaggered across the courtyard, indicating that the two cadets should desist.

'I have to hand it to you, mon ami, that was a stroke of genius,' Aramis admitted to the grinning Porthos. Both men looked up at the Captain. He was also smiling down at the man, who was now berating the two cadets in the middle of the courtyard. He caught the two Musketeers' eyes and they exchanged nods of satisfaction.

After a mild yet pertinent reminder of the rules of swordplay, Athos began to show the two young men the error of their ways. One after the other, he sparred with them both, a small circle of onlookers becoming a larger one. Even experienced Musketeers enjoyed watching Athos fight, despite the fact it was only with a wide-eyed cadet. When he had finished, he shook both the boys' hands and elicited firm promises from them that they would practise.

Aramis and Porthos noted the look in his eyes as he slowly walked toward them, swishing his sword in the air before him.

Porthos' smile wavered. 'You don't think…?'

Aramis beamed. 'Oh, I am afraid I think he is.'

As Athos bought his sword up in front of him, both Musketeers prepared to defend themselves, appearing far too delighted for men who were about to square up to Athos. The swordsman raised a brow then lunged at an off balance Porthos, almost bringing him down with his first blow.

Treville laughed as he watched the display unfold below him. In the nicest possible way, Athos was wiping the floor with his two best men. He had no intention of hurting them, but he was going to make them sweat – and they were loving it.


	7. Chapter 7

Please note, I am no medical expert, so the idea of food poisoning developing into typhoid fever, is based on its later connection with salmonella. I needed the regiment to be depleted, without there being any suggestion of it being targeted. This appeared to be a good solution, so forgive me for taking liberties.

Chapter 7

The three men collapsed onto the bench. Aramis and Porthos smiled broadly, both men completely drained, but happy. Serge appeared as if by magic, placing a tray of food and drink on the table.

'Don't expect this kind of service on a regular basis – it's for 'im,' he said, indicating a bemused Athos. 'It's good to see you again, son,' he added, patting the swordsman on the shoulder. 'And it's good to see them smile and mean it for a change.' With that, he ambled back to his sanctuary, leaving the three men strangely silent. The cadets continued to chat and train in the background, only emphasising the lack of conversation around the table – even Porthos only stared at the food before him.

Athos understood the inference behind the old man's words; up until now, he had never fully dared to consider the impact his leaving had had upon his friends. Now there was a huge gulf growing between them, and he knew he was the only one who could close it. He looked at the two Musketeers and desperately sought the words that would repair the damage he had done – sorry was pathetically inadequate – only a complete explanation would suffice. He took a deep breath and spoke.

'When you appeared in my life, I was adrift, without an anchor, with nothing and nobody to direct my purpose. Then, without warning, I awoke one morning to find that had all changed, and for the first time in a long while I had others to consider. Although the feeling was vague at first, it began to grow, to form a reason to be alive.

'When Treville offered me the chance to join the regiment it was a lifeline, but I was afraid to take it. I was scared it would slip from my grasp, and that I would not be able to keep afloat anymore, that I would simply drown. So I took a chance, and not only did I found a purpose, I found companionship too – more than I had ever dared. I discovered people who cared, and no matter how hard I pushed, they kept pushing back, making sure I stayed afloat. Then I made the ultimate mistake – I began to believe I could offer something in return, that I could become part of a whole once more.'

He paused, struggling to explain his desperate fear and need. Aramis and Porthos were captivated. Long speeches were not Athos' forte and they could see he was finding this difficult – but they understood he needed to do this, and they needed to hear it. Athos gazed at the two men, deep sorrow in his eyes.

Composed once more, he continued. 'When it all fell apart, I… I was angry – not with you, not with Treville, not even with the King, but with myself. Angry that I had sought something, acknowledged the need for something more than I had become – had dared to believe I could find it here. I could not have said goodbye, I could not have looked you in the eye and admitted my failure, could not have listened to your entreaties for me to stay. I was coward. I will not apologise, it would not be enough, simply another inadequacy; but understand that it was not… it was not because I did not care, only that I had begun to care too much.'

Athos stared at his hands. He could not make eye contact with the two men sitting opposite, but instead looked across the courtyard, and was surprised to find it empty. So engrossed had all three men been, they had not noticed the others leave to take refreshment in the refectory.

Aramis and Porthos were stunned. They knew Athos lacked faith in his own worth, but that he really believed himself such an abject failure was astonishing. Admonishing him would be futile, it would achieve nothing. He was trying to explain and to apologise, they accepted this, but how to show him they understood was a different matter. All they could do was try to prove to him that he did have worth – starting with just how much he was worth to them.

It was Porthos who made the first move. 'I was angry, too, and though I can't believe you could be so stupid, I do understand. However, if you ever do that again…' He paused for a moment, and it was Athos who finished his sentence.

'You can shoot me. It will probably be for the best.' Porthos looked at the swordsman, about to berate him, but when he saw the spark of mischief in Athos' eyes, the big man began to chortle.

'I will leave that to Aramis. I will just hit you first, to make myself feel better!' Aramis joined in the laughter, but Athos simply smiled.

'It is a bargain,' he stated quietly. Aramis placed his hand over Athos', and Porthos rested his on top.

'All for one …' the marksman whispered.

'… and one for all,' Athos responded, thanking the two men in the only way he knew how.

'You three, up here, now.' The command could not have come at a better moment, before they succumbed to blubbering. The three of them rose in unison and, with a shrug of his shoulders, Aramis indicated that he had no idea why they were being summoned. They filed up the staircase one behind the other, Athos bringing up the rear.

Treville sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers upon the one space not hidden under a mound of paper. Once the three men were stood before him, he began to speak.

'I have made some discreet enquiries into the events of last night.' He glanced at Athos who, as usual, was giving nothing away. The other two men shuffled slightly, and he realised they had not yet discussed it between them.

'You may not be aware, Athos, but when you ejected those two men from the tavern last night, you were being watched.' He smiled slightly, as he saw realisation dawn upon the swordsman's face.

Athos rolled his eyes. 'So that is why you came looking for me.' Now he understood why they had not been surprised to find him in the tavern that morning – it had not been a coincidence.

'We did not want to intervene, as you appeared to have it under control,' Aramis explained. Then we were interrupted and, like you, decided to make a speedy exit, especially as we had no idea what had occurred.' Athos nodded in understanding, amazed he had not noticed them. Treville continued.

'No men answering to your description were admitted to the Châtelet, last night. The Red Guard have no facility to hold prisoners in their own compound, so they would have had no choice but to pass them on to the prison. It appears they did not.' He let the statement hang in the air for the three men to digest. It was Athos who spoke up.

'Are you suggesting the Red Guard were involved somehow?' he asked the Captain. He did not express surprise at the suggestion, merely wanting to clarify the inference he detected in Treville's account of events.

The Captain smirked. 'It is not for me to say. I really do not know fully what occurred, nor what the two men may have been accused of – if anything.' Athos nodded, realising it was up to him to explain; it would appear this was the day for explanations, but he dearly hoped that this would be the last of them. He gave a succinct account of the events leading up to the encounter outside the tavern, as only Athos could, and the three men listened carefully. There was rarely any need to intervene with Athos' recall of a situation – if he was not telling it now, then it was not for telling at all… whatever his reasons. However, in this instance there seemed he had left little out. It all made sense, and they were left wondering what had become of the two men. Again, it was Athos who took up the conversation.

'They would have needed medical attention,' he stated quietly.

Porthos snorted. 'The Red Guard are hardly likely to worry about an injured prisoner,' he observed.

'No, but they might if they had been one of their own,' Athos replied, adopting a smug expression. Treville frowned in consternation.

'You actually believe the two men were Guards?' the Captain asked. Athos grew serious. He seemed thoughtful.

'I had my suspicions. There was something orderly in the way they went about their collections. On the occasions I witnessed them, they never showed any sign of expecting trouble, never kept watch to ensure no Guard or Musketeer was present. If I had been part of a pair, I would have had one man keep watch whilst I made the collection, but that was never the case. They did not expect trouble.' Treville listened to the observation and nodded, it was nowhere near conclusive, but it was an interesting point.

'Well, if they follow their usual pattern, nothing will happen now until the end of the month, so we must bide our time. Make some discreet enquiries, but then hope to catch them in the act. Athos, we will need you to stay at the garrison in order to identify the two men. And whilst you are here, I take it you will make yourself useful as you just did?' He was not going to ask the man to stay – he knew it was a difficult subject– but this way, he had given the young man no choice. Athos stared at the Captain, merely nodding his agreement, and the other two men could hardly contain their joy.

'Well go and find something useful to do you two, I need to speak with Athos.' The two men happily left the room. Athos would have to stay at least until the end of the month, and they would make it count. Once outside Porthos began to chuckle.

'You do realise 'e has said more today than 'e did in the first three months that we knew 'im?

'Do you think it is a new Athos?' Aramis asked, stupefied.

'Nah.' Porthos shook his head. 'Doubt he will say anything for the next two weeks, to make up for it!' Aramis snorted, both men chuckling at the thought of Athos having used up his quota of conversation for the next few weeks in just one day.

Inside the Captain's office, Athos' heartbeat rapidly increased. Please, no more explanations. Suddenly he felt drained; he had not eaten or drunk anything, excluding wine, for days and, after the vigorous exercise in the yard, his legs threatened to buckle. Treville noted the young man's complexion pale, and guessed that he feared the conversation to come.

'Sit. That's an order.' He did not wait for Athos to point out he was not a Musketeer, but left the room and shouted over the banister to the cadets below: 'Tell Serge we need food and drink for two. My office.' He returned to his desk confident that his orders would be carried out to the letter. If the truth be told, he was not at all hungry, having had breakfast not so long ago, but he knew that even if Athos were to eat, he certainly would not do so alone. Like many who knew the man, he often wondered what kept the swordsman alive.

'We have a situation,' Treville informed the sallow young man. 'Your arrival is most timely, as I admit another pair of eyes would be most helpful.' He deliberately avoided Athos' stare, giving him time to realise he was not about to be admonished or interrogated. When he looked up, there was more colour in Athos' face, though he was still pale, but then he always was. However, there was a gleam of relief in his eyes, and Treville knew he had read the young man right.

'The King has decided that there are those amongst the nobility who were conspicuous by their absence from the party. Added to which, rumours of ill health and injury abound, and he is most upset.' A raised brow accompanied the comment, and Athos gave a chuckle, well imagining the King's reaction to such gossip.

'He has decided, much to the Cardinal's horror, and mine, I might add, that a small tour is in order. He feels that burdening those responsible with hosting their majesties, and their associated entourage, for however long he wishes, will make them toe the line, or bankrupt them, whichever is the most effective.' Athos, continued to smile, whether at the King's childish behaviour or the Cardinal's discomfort, he was not sure.

'That leaves the regiment with a real headache. Obviously, the King wishes the Musketeers to be his escort, but how long the journey will last, is impossible to tell. It could be months, or it may come to an end following the first bad meal or uncomfortable bed, who knows? However, we are not leaving until the end of the month, though that day approaches fast. Aramis suggested sending Musketeers to the various destinations, in order to get a better idea of routes and possible dangers, as well as establishing who to expect in residence, and who not to expect.' Athos smiled at his friend's perspicacity.

'An excellent idea,' he stated, waiting for the rest of the story. There was a problem, and he would give Treville the opportunity to explain. However, fate intervened, and it was down to a poor cadet to impart the news. A sudden knock at the door caused both men to turn.

'Come,' came the answering bark, and the young cadet Guinot entered the room. He gave Athos a nod of acknowledgment before turning to Treville. Guinot offered no smile, obviously not particularly delighted to be the one delivering the message. Treville waited, frowning at the young man's hesitation.

'Go ahead, Guinot. The tradition of beheading the messenger died out many years ago,' Athos offered as encouragement. The young man smiled and straightened slightly.

'Sir, the infirmarian says you are to come as quickly as you can… if you please… sir,' he added, not sure if the message was appropriate in its current form. Treville took in the young man's demeanour, and with increased concern, he beckoned to Athos.

'Come.' Both men followed the cadet down the stairs and across the courtyard. Aramis and Porthos, working with the young men in the yard, noted their journey across the open space and, after exchanging a brief look of concern, followed them. They arrived close on the two men's heels, just in time to hear the medic issue his dire opinion.

'They were bought in supposedly suffering from some form of stomach problem, the result of badly prepared food. However, whatever the source, I now have to conclude we are dealing with typhoid fever. We have just lost Blaize, and I fear we may lose more before the end of the day and, worse still, two more cases have just been bought in.' Treville stared at the man totally disbelievingly. Dead? But they had simply eaten bad food. Snapping to attention, the stunned Captain demanded:

'What do we do?' The infirmarian shook his head.

'We quarantine the infirmary. No visitors to those already sick and bring food and other necessities no further than the door. Blaize had been ill recently, and his resistance may have already been low. With luck, those on the brink may have more good fortune, but Le Grand is fading. We also need to know where they have been.' He did not elaborate; the inference was enough. Treville turned to the three men at his side. 'Round up the men.' Athos, Aramis and Porthos moved as one. Within minutes the entire garrison was lined up beneath the balcony outside the Captain's office.

'Men, we have a situation. Two days ago, ten men left the garrison fit and well. Within several hours they were confined to the infirmary with suspected poisoning from something they had eaten, or drunk. I am sorry to inform you that Blaize has since died from this infection,' He paused to allow the shock of his news to sink in. 'The rest of the party are still severely ill, and we may yet lose more men. The infirmary is off limits and, as of now, all food, drink and medical supplies are to be left at the door. Meals will be taken in your rooms and any existing supplies will be destroyed.' He ran his hands through his hair at the thought of the expense of replacing all the provisions already opened, not to mention Serge's reaction.

'Those of you who have had any dealings with the men inside the infirmary, I ask that you confine yourself to your rooms for the next twenty-four hours, by which time any symptoms should have become apparent. If any of those affected live outside the garrison, rooms will be made available and your kin will be notified. Those of you who have had no contact with the men, stay where you are. Cadets, you can go to your quarters for the present, and await instructions.' He noted roughly ten or twelve men had reacted to his directive of self-quarantine – which meant at least twenty-five of his men out of action in all.

'Athos, Porthos, Aramis, my office.' Treville turned from the rail and disappeared inside, where he paced back and forth, digesting the possible outcome of the latest catastrophe.

The three men swept into the room, Athos in the lead – a total change from their last entrance. Had the situation not been so serious, Treville would have smiled at the return of the familiar formation.

'Find where they went. My understanding is it was Belvoir's birthday – start there, and whilst you are making enquiries, you may also uncover other items of interest.' Athos nodded in understanding, and the three men left without uttering a word. With one man dead and many more ill, it was not a time for humour or superficial banter.

Once outside, Porthos and Aramis disappeared to find out if anyone knew where the birthday celebrations had been held, leaving Athos alone for the first time in several hours. He closed his eyes and made the most of the moment of solitude. It had been a long time since he had been around so many people who actually expected him to interact with them – he was out of practice and had forgotten how tiring it could be. The food Treville had sent for had not had time to arrive, and he had to admit that his body was beginning to feel the effect.

Aramis and Porthos raced back across the yard, their faces indicating that they now had somewhere to begin.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Aramis talked as they walked, Porthos and Athos striding alongside, listening intently.

'According to Lemarché, he was supposed to attend the celebrations with them but had fallen badly during the afternoon's sparring, twisting an ankle; luckily for him, he decided resting it was more important. Anyway, he told me that Gallét had something planned, something he thought would be highly entertaining. He was not sure what it was, but he overheard him talking about The Peacock. Now I have not frequented the inn – it is a fairly recent establishment compared with many taverns in Paris –but I do believe they run another form of business in the rooms behind. I could hazard a guess at Gallét's idea of a surprise; Belvoir is a green lad of nineteen, and if the rumours about The Peacock are true, he would have had the shock of his life.'

Porthos began to chuckle and Athos gave the slightest twitch of his lips. Gallét was a good soldier, but his idea of a joke often went too far. Still, he was a good man at heart, and they did not like to think of him suffering so badly for a birthday prank.

As they walked along one of Paris' main streets, the three men fell silent, content to be together again, at least for now.

March was coming to an end and April would soon be upon them. The air was beginning to lose the chill of winter, bright sun warming one's face, promising the return of summer. Of course, the passing of March also heralded something else – the onset of the King's tour.

The Peacock was an old and fairly dilapidated building, certainly not somewhere you would expect to find a party of Musketeers; they halted outside the entrance sensing something was wrong. Though some taverns stayed open day and night, most closed eventually, if only to allow the owners to take stock and get some rest. But business was money, and to find a tavern closed at this time of day was unheard of.

'What do ya think?' Porthos enquired, a wary look on his face.

'Knocking cannot hurt,' Aramis replied, ever the optimist. He looked to Athos for confirmation and the man gave a slight nod. Stepping forward, Aramis rapped hard upon the door, then stood and listened. The only noise came from the street behind them – there was no sound from within. Aramis tried again, this time beating at the door with his fist. Silence for a moment, then the faint sound of furniture being shifted behind the solid oak. The door latch lifted, and slowly it opened, just enough to allow an ashen face to peer out into the bright sunlight. The three men took in the appearance of the young girl, who had limp yellow hair and wide pale eyes.

'We aint open, the landlord's sick.' She whispered the statement as though it were a secret, her frightened eyes darting from one man to the other and then toward the street beyond, as if to ensure nobody was listening.

'What are his symptoms?' Aramis asked. Urgency was evident in his tone, though he attempted not to frighten the girl any further. She hesitated for a second and Aramis thought she was considering shutting the door. 'Do not worry, we will not hurt you or bring you trouble. How many people are ill?' The girl looked as though she was about to cry.

'Everyone, 'cept me and Mary.' A stray tear slid down her face and suddenly she looked very young indeed. If the rumours surrounding The Peacock were true, the three men could guess what she was doing in the less than salubrious establishment.

'How many is that?' Aramis urged as kindly as his patience would allow. The girl wrinkled her forehead as she struggled with the question.

'There's Monsieur Vert and 'is wife, then there's the girls, five of 'em. They's all sick. But I think there may be more. Madame Vert thought it was the food, and we sold out of food on Saturday, we was real busy.' She looked terrified, as though, with everyone else sick, the blame would fall on her. Aramis was gently pushed aside, and Athos approached the girl. Her eyes flickered for a moment, he did not have a kind face, and when he spoke the girl looked as though she was about to flee.

'Where do you get your water from?' As usual no preamble, straight to the point, though she seemed slightly relieved by the simplicity of the question.

'Out back, we have a well.' She looked from Athos back to Aramis, hoping one of them might relieve her of the problem. It was Aramis who spoke.

'Keep them comfortable and try and make them drink, not water but tea. Do you have tea?' The girl nodded, taking in every word as though her life depended upon it – which it possibly did. 'Other than that, try and have as little contact with them as possible. Do you understand?' Again, she gave a slight nod of her head. 'I will try and get a doctor to attend, but I cannot promise.' Aramis looked downcast, not at all convinced he would find anyone who would bother to come out and help those within. By the time he shook off the depressing notion that those afflicted were likely to be left to suffer alone, he realised the girl had withdrawn inside and shut the door; not only that but Athos was no longer with them.

He turned to Porthos, who nodded his head toward the alleyway at the side of the building, before turning and following after Athos. The two men headed down the dark, filthy passageway just in time to see Athos turn the corner toward the rear of the tavern. As they approached, the stench of rotting food and rubbish was overwhelming, and they fought the urge to cover their noses. At the end of the narrow enclosure they found Athos surveying the small patch of land they now found themselves in. Several rats scurried to escape the human invasion of their territory, their small feet scratching upon the hard dirt of the floor.

'Urgh, I 'ate rats,' Porthos growled, stamping his large boots down hard upon the floor as if to emphasise his point, as well as ensuring they stayed well away.

'This is Paris, mon ami, it is hard to avoid them,' Aramis pointed out, grinning at his friend's obvious discomfort.

'We need to find this well,' Athos stated, rooting around amongst the long grass. As they rounded the pile of refuse, a well-worn path became apparent and the opening of the well emerged. Surrounded by a wall about waist-high, the shaft was roughly six hand-widths across. The wall was in poor repair, suggesting that the rubbish piled high against it could probably be found at the bottom of the shaft on a far too regular basis.

Athos leant over the dark well and wrinkled his nose. 'This water probably comes from the Seine; God knows what lies at the bottom.' The other two men concurred, holding their hands over their mouths.

Convinced they had discovered the source of their colleague's illness, there was little else they could achieve. Treville may be able to summon the help of a physician, but it was unlikely he would offer much in the way of assistance.

As they retraced their steps down the passageway, Porthos increased his pace as the sound of scurrying feet echoed behind them. Aramis laughed, whilst Athos' face bore the trace of a smirk, both men amused to see Porthos practically run toward the light at the end of the gloomy corridor. Reaching the open and noisy street once more, he gave a shiver.

'I think it's time for a drink. That place 'as left a nasty taste in my mouth. God knows what Gallét was thinking.' Indeed, the idea of encouraging a green and vulnerable lad to lose his virginity in such a place was poor taste even for the errant Musketeer. Still, it would seem that he was now to pay a considerable price for his lack of judgement.

Spring sunshine slanted low across the busy street, already the afternoon was wearing on and, uncharacteristically, Athos was ready to admit to himself that he was hungry. His head had begun to ache once more – in fact, he was not at all sure it had ever stopped, he had just been too busy to notice. As they reached the tavern, Porthos barged in through the door like a man who had not partaken of sustenance for an age. Aramis winked at Athos before soberly addressing Porthos, 'One quick drink my friend, we have too much to do.' He offered the disappointed Musketeer his most sympathetic expression as Porthos watched a plate laden with food pass before his eyes, the aroma which reached his nose making him groan in frustration.

'We missed lunch and I'm starvin,' Porthos complained, scowling at the two men who were attempting to keep straight faces. He looked defiant, daring them to deny him his right to regular meals. As he glowered at his friends, he could not help but notice the look on Athos' face as more meals were delivered to waiting tables. In an instant Porthos ceased to frown, now he was grinning from ear to ear, 'E's 'ungry! I can tell, don't even bother denying it,' he warned, wagging a finger at Athos. 'You just watched that stew with the same look you normally reserve for a good brandy.' He smiled and folded his arms, a smug expression settling upon his face. Aramis smiled happily, and turned to see how Athos would react, anticipating some acidic retort or a simple roll of his eyes at the very suggestion. But no, Athos was smiling, and when Aramis raised a brow in surprise, the swordsman simply shrugged his shoulders and slapped Porthos on the shoulder.

'For once, my friend, I am in agreement. I, too, am ready to eat, and perhaps this is a good time to consider what we have learnt.' The three men walked to the bar together in total accord. Once they were seated with ale and wine, they began to discuss their rather bizarre morning.

'From the circumstances we witnessed at The Peacock, I think it is fair to surmise that there was no malice intended – our men simply made a poor choice in their venue.' Aramis nodded his head, saddened by the suffering that might have been avoided had Gallét not been so intent on giving Belvoir a night to remember. He hoped the man would be able to live with his decision when, or rather if, the lad recovered. 'The tavern will have to be quarantined,' said Aramis, 'plus we must ensure no one else drinks from that well, though it did not appear to serve any other establishment.' He looked up, but noted only Porthos was paying attention.

Athos was staring across the room, his glass halfway to his mouth. Aramis turned to see what had caught his attention. A small boy was standing in the doorway, eyes darting around the room as though he was searching for someone. Finally, his eyes locked with those of Athos and the boy froze. For a moment he looked as though he was about to run, especially when the man in question rose from his seat and began to stride toward him. He quickly weighed up his options but glanced at something in his hand. Whatever it was, it seemed to make up his mind, he widened his stance and stood his ground, though his expression said he would rather be anywhere other than where he was, confronting this man whose face turned his blood to ice.

Athos stood before the boy looking down at the upturned face – a picture of rebelliousness, which under different conditions he might have found amusing. However, he had seen the lad before, and the circumstances had not been easy to forget. Whether the boy had played an active part in the charade, or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he was about to find out.

'We have met before I believe?' Athos murmured, never for a second taking his eyes from the boy. The lad blinked rapidly, not even daring to shuffle his feet. There was no way out, and he suspected the man would simply lift him bodily off the floor if he so much as twitched. He gulped and settled for nodding his head.

'Are you looking for me now?' he asked, his voice low, but the authority it bore very clear. Swallowing hard, the boy gave another small nod.

Athos tilted his head and thought for a moment then, taking a deep breath, he asked quietly, 'Did she send you?' He watched the small upturned face – the eyes flared and the fear in them provided the answer he sought. 'I see. What were you to do?' This time the boy did not hesitate, he thrust the piece of paper he had clutched in his hand toward Athos. The man did not take it straight away, instead he simply stared, his face a blank mask, causing the boy to finally speak.

'Please mister, take the paper, she won't pay me if ya don't.' Athos blinked, though he still made no move. Slowly he reached out and took the folded paper. He held it in his hand but made no move to unfold it and read its contents. So engrossed was he in the small note, he failed to react in time to prevent the boy from slipping past him and escaping out into the street. Still, what could he have revealed? Athos knew she would only have told the child what she wished him to know.

Slowly he unfolded the note. The red seal seemed to stand out from the pale parchment, an intricate M entwined with a W pressed into the wax. He was not aware of his actions as his fingers stroked softly over the imprint beneath his fingers, caressing the wax until it softened beneath the warmth of his touch. Athos was in a world away from the tavern, in which he stood until a voice spoke softly over his shoulder.

'Is something amiss? Aramis enquired. 'Your food is ready.' He did not push for an answer, merely taking in the small envelope clutched in his friend's hand, the knuckles that held it white with tension. Athos said nothing, merely thrusting the missive inside his jacket and, turning abruptly, he failed to look his friend in the eye, simply returning with Aramis to their table. Porthos raised his brows at the Marksman, but Aramis merely shrugged his shoulders and sat himself down. Athos no longer appeared to have an appetite, pushing his food around the plate as though he didn't really see it.

'There is no need to spear that beef, the owner has been long dead,' Porthos offered, in an attempt to lighten the mood that had settled over the company. Athos grunted and finally gave up any attempt at interest in the stew. He pushed the plate away and stared into his glass instead. The two men exchanged glances, both recognising the signs they were witnessing. When Athos poured himself another glass and drank it down in several gulps, their minds were made up. Porthos took hold of the plate of stew and silently asked if Athos was finished. The man waved his hand indicating he had no further use for it, leaving Porthos – never a man to let food go to waste – to dig in. Aramis pondered the situation, trying to decide the best course of action. Athos had received a communication from someone and, judging by his reaction, it was not particularly welcome. Taking a deep breath, he decided that jumping in with both feet was the only approach – if Athos chose to shun him, then so be it.

'What is wrong, my friend, do you suspect bad news? I could not help but note the letter in your hand.' His voice was gentle and there was no suggestion of judgement or insistence. Athos raised his head, and once again Aramis was stunned by the level of pain in those green eyes, but there was a flicker of something else. Anger? Fear? It was so fleeting that he was unable to interpret the emotion, but Athos was conflicted, of that he was certain.

oOo

Milady paced up and down in front of the Cardinal's large desk – she was always puzzled as to why the man had such a large apartment but chose to furnish it with so little of interest. She had concluded that he aimed to intimidate, and she had to admit it worked very well. However, at the moment she was nervous, though she was trying desperately not to show it.

'My dear, you seem agitated. If the job is too difficult, I can always find someone else to accompany me.' He attempted a smile, but on him it was just a narrow dark slit in a face that promised cruelty and deceit. She forced herself to appear as nonchalant as possible, even though her heart was beating so hard she was convinced he must be able to see it, if not hear it, hammering against her ribs. She ceased her pacing, blinking slowly and peering at him from beneath her dark lashes.

'Difficulty is not the issue. I cannot be seen to accompany you, yet you wish me to be your eyes and ears within the party. How exactly do you suggest I do that?' the Cardinal grinned, though his eyes still remained cold and hard.

'That is in hand, do not worry. Just be ready when I call for you, and make yourself presentable to appear before the Queen. Is that your only concern? You seem unusually distressed, is there something I should know? If it is the business with Montmorency, that cannot be traced back to you, unless there was something you were not telling me.' She shot him a look, the reference to the man she had murdered the last time she had visited Rambouillet had unnerved her even more. Still she remained aloof, shaking her dark hair from her pale shoulders.

'No, there is no way anyone can connect that with me. Only Aramis and Porthos were present at the Château de'Rambouillet, and they would never expect the culprit to still be present.' Richelieu pressed his long fingers together and touched them to his pale lips.

'And the sword master, Athos, he, too, was present, was he not?' It took all of her self-control not to react, though she could not be sure that her eyes did not give away her surprise. Why would he have mentioned Athos? Surely he could not know anything of their past history? No, he was fishing; his empire was based upon information and secrets, and she would not add to his bounty.

'Yes, I believe he was, though there is no reason for him to journey this time, he sealed his fate with the King at the Queen's party.' She smirked and held the Cardinal's gaze; he nodded, with half-closed lids, in a lazy expression of agreement.

'Good, then be ready, the King is getting restless. Something tells me he could demand to leave at any moment, and if we must go then I would rather it be sooner than later. The quicker we leave, the quicker his Majesty will likely change his mind, and decide he would rather be enjoying the comforts of home.' Something in the man's eyes caught her attention.

'Do you have plans to aid his decision?' she ventured, knowing that too many questions could be her undoing. Instead of backing off, Richelieu preened and smirked.

'Far be it for me to spoil the King's plans in any way. However, there are many dangers and pitfalls that can mar a long journey, especially for a man so used to the excesses of luxury and comfort as those afforded the King.' Milady raised an elegant brow and began to pull on her gloves.

'Very well, I will make my preparations and await your further instructions.' Turning her back to the Cardinal, she sashayed toward the doorway, all the time aware of the penetrating stare fixed upon her retreating figure. She did not hurry, but forced herself to travel slowly, even though the sensation was very much akin to being stabbed in the back.

Richelieu watched her as she left – the woman was beautiful, but she was not irreplaceable. Paris was full of beautiful women, though it was true that they were not all as proficient with a blade as Milady de Winter. She would be a useful asset on this debacle and, if necessary, she would provide a suitable scapegoat should one be needed.

He tapped his fingers on the desk in a rare show of irritation. There was still some secret which he could not unearth, some connection to the man Athos. It showed as clear as day in her face, and the way she held her body at the very mention of his name, despite the fact she tried so hard to hide it. It was more than mere attraction or infatuation – he was not even sure a woman as cold as her was capable of such emotion – no, it was much stronger. As strong as love? Or hate? He was not sure, but his curiosity burned to find out, and find out he would, one way or another.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Athos did not know how to respond to Aramis' question – as the marksman had suspected, he was indeed conflicted. There was a part of him that had emerged from the brooding darkness and longed to reach out to the light that was his burgeoning friendship; he longed for the warmth and reassurance that this new-found support offered him.

Though these two men constantly volunteered love and encouragement, without judgement, he still found it too good to be true, and so fell back upon the response he knew so well, which had protected him from the cold reality of human interaction – he withdrew behind the walls he had erected, the ones built to keep the pain away. Fearing his brothers' judgment, he kept silent, his fears and longings churning within him like a bubbling volcano, his subconscious ever fearful of the moment he would finally erupt beneath the pressure.

Nothing was his inevitable reply. Aramis was not surprised, though he could not deny he was disappointed. After recent events, he had allowed himself to believe, now that they had cleared the air, Athos had accepted their presence and would let them into his life. He had been wrong. The man who stared at him across the table had hidden behind his old mask of neutrality, whatever fierce emotion he had witnessed earlier now shuttered away, where he alone could dwell and mither over it. So Aramis bit down upon the reply that hovered upon his lips, lowering his eyes in the hope that his own emotions were not obvious.

Porthos had watched the scene unfold across the busy tavern, just as Aramis had. He watched again now, as the marksman attempted to coax information from the brooding Athos, and he was tempted to smack the swordsman around the head as if he were a recalcitrant child. Instead, he scowled and looked from Athos' dark and tense expression, to the crestfallen face of Aramis. He knew his friend would take Athos' reluctance personally, and it would hurt the Musketeer, despite his attempts to suggest otherwise; Porthos understood that Aramis interpreted Athos' cold front as a personal failure. He wanted to shake Athos and tell him to stop being so bloody selfish, but he knew he would not, for he too felt the swordsman's emotional battle. Athos had to decide to come to them – there would be no other way.

The atmosphere had grown tense. Athos knew he was to blame, and the crushing disappointment that came off Aramis and Porthos in waves threatened to drive him deeper into the well of guilt his conscience was falling into – yet he simply could not allow himself to grasp at the lifeline the two men offered. Aramis finally broke the silence.

'If you two gentlemen will excuse me.' The Musketeer offered a bright smile as he stood, exiting through the milling crowd, toward the door. Porthos looked at Athos, attempting an expression that bore no criticism or judgement, but his face was an open book compared to Athos.

The swordsman fought his own internal battle, reason finally gaining the upper hand. 'I will talk to him,' he volunteered.

Porthos quirked a brow, 'Now?' Athos blinked, somewhat taken aback, then he sighed and, resigned to his fate, he gave a slight nod.

'Now.' He stood and strode through the crowd, the drunken revellers parting as if they sensed the strength of emotion the man exuded. Porthos thought Athos looked more like a man approaching the gallows than attempting to discourse with a friend.

Aramis gulped in the fresh air as though, inside the tavern, he had ceased to breathe. For a hardened and brave soldier, he often feared he was too sensitive for his own good – a sentiment both Porthos and Treville supported. His head told him he completely understood Athos' reservations. He understood the man's natural reserve, but that did not stop his heart from breaking just a little every time he watched his friend retreat into his despair, not allowing him and Porthos to help.

He was so deep in thought, as well as tending to his own personal needs, he did not hear the soft footfalls approach behind him until he felt a sharp blade at his throat. A deep guttural voice spoke close to his ear, the smell of body odour and liquor, combined with the grating tone, setting the marksman's teeth on edge.

'Not so cocky now are you, Musketeer?' the voice crowed. 'Drop your weapons, all of them, and kick them away.' Aramis hesitated for a moment too long, whilst his brain ran a series of options through his head. He gasped as the blade split his skin and felt warm blood trickling down his throat. 'I said now! Do not think, just do it!' the voice rasped, agitation clear. Aramis had no choice. He unbuckled his weapons belt and sighed as he heard his sword and beloved musket hit the floor; he kicked them away, feeling the blade ever present at his throat. 'Right, now listen good. Tell your friend that if he wants to live to see another day – or if he wants his friends to see another day – to back off and mind his own business.' He laughed, as if he had made a joke, before continuing: 'I will know if he has been asking questions. Do you understand?'

Athos walked across the room, staring intently upon the doorway. The wooden object may as well have been the portal to hell by the way he glared at it with a mixture of anger and fear. He hesitated, hand upon the iron latch, trying to find the courage to take him over the threshold. Porthos watched him falter and held his breath. If he could have helped him find the courage by will power alone, he would have – but this was Athos' battle, not his. He let out a sigh of relief as the man finally pulled open the door and stepped into the night.

Athos turned down the dark alley, guessing Aramis' need for privacy; what he had not expected was the scene unfolding before him. Aramis stood facing away from him, kicking his weapons belt aside, whilst a man stood behind him, holding a weapon of some sort to the marksman's head. Whatever emotion had been churning inside Athos was immediately replace by ice cold fury. It was the sort of anger that allowed him to channel that passion down the length of steel, enabling him to deliver a terrifying judgement – as this man was about to find out. He slipped back out of sight, long enough to draw his sword, aware that silence was necessary to achieve his goal. Creeping back into the alley, he heard the man began to laugh. Athos was grateful for the deep cackle, which covered the sound of his booted feet as he eased closer to his quarry.

When the man ceased his laughter, Athos could hear him muttering something in Aramis' ear, giving him just the time he needed to prod the man in the back with his sword.

'Let him go!' Athos hissed; his voice cold enough to freeze the blood in his victim's veins.

The stranger paused for a fraction of a second, but he had no intention of surrendering, not to the man who held a sword to his back. With one swift movement, he clubbed Aramis to the temple with the butt of his knife and thrust the man away from him. Pivoting on the spot, knife extended before him, he drew his own sword. It was lucky for him he carried a sword, for the knife flew from his numbed fingers just as the weapon left its sheath.

Athos spared a glance toward the fallen Musketeer; he was conscious, but the glazed look on his face suggested he was still stunned from the blow to his head.

The swordsman saw the flash from the blade as the hooded man spun to face him and, flicking his wrist, he knocked the knife from the man's hand, sending a wave of pain down the assailant's arm which caused him to hiss with pain.

'You!' the man growled. 'If I had known you were coming, I would have waited and slit your throat, you interfering bastard.'

Athos gave a twitch of his lips before offering an acidic retort. 'I fear my father may have taken offence at your suggestion, and I now feel obliged to defend my mother's honour, as well as revenge the injury you have done to my friend.'

With that, Athos lunged, and the furious clashing of steel echoed in the dark gulley, finally shaking Aramis from his stupor. The marksman tried to stand but his head swam, and he was not sure exactly how many men were fighting in the alley – which troubled him somewhat. Athos allowed his sword to slide down his opponent's, keeping the blade at bay, whilst enabling him to get close to his adversary. With a manoeuvre that had impressed Porthos only the other night, but took the masked man by surprise, he whipped his head back and landed a heavy blow to the man's nose and was rewarded by a satisfying crack and a shriek of pain. Athos sprang away, sword raised, in readiness for the anguished riposte he anticipated. Blinded by blood, pain and fury, his assailant lunged, a hate-filled scream accompanying his attack. Athos smirked in satisfaction as the man allowed his anger to override his tactics. He lashed out wildly, whilst the swordsman's cold logic flowed through his arm as he struck the man's blade, twisting it with enough force to send it flying through the air.

Just as he was about to press his advantage, he felt something catch beneath his boot and his attention was momentarily distracted by the bellowing cry which erupted behind him. Athos staggered, desperately attempting to correct his footing, as something seemed to anchor his right foot to the ground.

'Oi, what's goin' on?' An angry Porthos entered the fray just as Athos, already unstable, found himself pushed hard in the chest. Unable to steady himself, Athos threw his arms out in front of him in an attempt to stop himself from falling. Just as he realised his efforts were in vain, and crashing to the floor was inevitable, he felt himself collide with something solid, which abruptly halted his decent. The fact that the solid something let out a loud oomph, revealed it was likely to be Porthos' chest. Whilst this was happening, the man responsible had obviously decided it was time to make his retreat and dashed past the two entangled men.

'Count your days… swordmaster,' he managed to spit, as he passed Athos, before running from the alley and into the night.

Porthos grabbed hold of Athos' shoulders and manoeuvred the man upright, just as the sword master kicked away the object that had bought about his literal downfall.

'If you do not mind, that is my favourite musket you are abusing with your boot,' Aramis muttered as he held a cloth to the side of his head. Both men turned to look at the seated Musketeer, Porthos letting out a guffaw, glad both his friends appeared unharmed. Athos glowered at Aramis.

'Perhaps in future you could avoid leaving it lying around where someone might fall over it.' Athos delivered the retort with haughty sarcasm.

'My apologies, I am sure. Next time I am asked to relieve myself of my weaponry whilst a blade is held to my throat, I will endeavour to be more thoughtful.' Despite the droll banter, there was a gleam in each man's eyes that told of his relief at the other's continued survival.

'What was that about?' Porthos enquired.

Athos shrugged his shoulders and, as Aramis struggled to his feet, both men ended up looking to him for further explanation.

'I am fine, just fine. Thank you for asking.' He glared at his two friends.

'You are standing and flippant, therefore you are fine.' Athos managed to deliver the line with his usual disdain, though neither Musketeer doubted the humour behind the remark. 'We are long overdue in our report to Treville. Talk as we walk.' With that, he turned abruptly and made his way out of the alley.

Porthos and Aramis ran to catch him up, Aramis fastening his weapons belt as he strode beside Athos. 'It would appear you have not been playing nice with the other children,' Aramis said with a smile, aware of Athos' attempt to ignore him. 'Your friend back there is obviously displeased with you.'

'Really? I thought when he mentioned slitting my throat, it was an unusual term of endearment,' Athos deadpanned.

Porthos grinned. 'That's pleasant. You really do have a way of pissin' people off.'

Aramis slapped Athos on the shoulder. 'Joking aside, my friend, he had a message for you.' Aramis frowned recalling the blade slicing into his throat.

'I think his message was evident,' Athos responded.

'It was more than that, he wanted you to back off, mind your own business if you– or your friends – wanted to see another day.' Porthos glanced at the marksman, then both men turned to Athos, noting the man break the rhythm of his stride, before increasing his pace, face fixed in a mask of cold contempt. He was immune to threats against his own person, but a threat to his friends made his blood boil with fury.

Though he knew neither man would bat an eye at such a threat, he was enraged that they had, yet again, been dragged into a situation of his making. Aramis was anticipating just such a response and intended to nip it in the bud.

'It is not a situation of your making, you informed Treville of your suspicions, making it a Musketeer concern. It is now the responsibility of all of us to uncover who is behind the racketeering.' He paused for a moment, his handsome face frowning as he considered another possibility. 'I assume that is what he referred to? You have not involved yourself in any other situation that would encourage your demise?'

Athos snorted, 'Despite what you think, I do not make a habit of embroiling myself in the illegal affairs of others. Not unless I am drawn into them directly or…' He paused, long enough for Porthos to intervene.

'Or what?' the big man asked, his face full of genuine interest.

'Or the victim is unable to defend themselves.'

'How very noble of you. Your honour does you credit, my friend. 'Aramis' words were well meant, but they caused Athos' heart to skip a beat, so close had he come to the truth of it.

They had reached the garrison gates, and as one they all fell silent, the shadow of the infirmary darkening their mood, both literally and metaphorically, as they passed beneath its canopy. It was with an element of reluctance that the three men mounted the stairs to Treville's office. The light had begun to fade, and the glow of a lamp was evident through the window, only emphasising the coming of evening and the length of their absence. All three were beginning to regret their delay, caused by seeking refreshment at The Wren, and Porthos wished he had listened to Athos' advice, especially as their brothers lay ill within the garrison walls.

Athos lead the trio up the stairs, the slow rhythm of their booted feet evidence of their growing reluctance. Like errant boys awaiting their fate, they halted before the door as Athos knocked.

'Come!' The severe command from the Musketeer Captain had the three friends standing to attention as they filed into the office and arranged themselves in front of Treville's desk. The man noted the familiar formation but did not allow it to mellow his mood. He was irritated. His day had gone from bad to worse and, whether these men deserved it or not, they were going to get the sharp edge of his tongue because of it.

'Where the hell have you been?' the Captain barked. The three men stood straighter, each managing to find a spot of interest on the wall just above the top of Treville's head. 'Well?' As was slowly becoming the norm, Athos spoke for the three of them. Generally, it was because he had the knack of delivering a succinct report; including all the important detail, but none of the more flowery elements he would have got from Aramis. However, Treville had come to realise that succinct could also mean devoid of all of the dangerous, or reckless, or just downright stupid parts. For their sakes, he hoped that was not going to be the case now.

'We believe we have discovered the source of the fever. There is a well that services the Peacock Tavern, it is not in good repair and is likely to be the cause of the men's illness. Currently the inn is closed, and all but two of the inhabitants are laid low with fever. For the time being it will remain closed, ensuring nobody else comes into contact with them. Whether anything can be done to alleviate their suffering… we offered no promises.' He looked directly at Treville as he gave this last statement, the rest having been delivered in his usual concise manner, though directed somewhere to the left of where Treville currently stood scowling.

There was a lengthy pause, which Athos did not appear intent to fill. This time it was Aramis who spoke up.

'How are the men?' His eyes showed his concern and Treville understood it was genuine, but he was unable to climb down from the angry mood which threatened to overwhelm him.

'Tricoux is dead and Gallét is hanging on by a thread. Three more are showing symptoms. Apparently, Lecroix helped Serge prepare food in the kitchen earlier this morning before he, too, succumbed, that must be why men are developing fever who were not present at the tavern that night. We have had to destroy all that was in the kitchens and send for food prepared outside – Serge is beside himself.' He glared at the three men as if they were somehow solely responsible for recent events. Silence reigned once more. Aramis hung his head, devastated at the news, and Porthos lowered his eyes, whilst Athos' face remained impassive.

'These inhabitants of the tavern, were they not so disabled that they were able to attack you? Or did your day end in its usual manner – with you finding time to drink and brawl in some other establishment whilst your brothers died in agony?' It was cruel and unfair blow and Treville knew it. However, losing good men in battle was one thing, but this was something else entirely; the letters he would have to write to loved ones could not be elevated by tales of bravery and honour, just simple bad luck – it was all wrong.

'Could you not have simply walked past for once?' The question was clearly aimed at Athos, and the Captain was aware of the pain and sorrow that flickered momentarily in those green eyes, before he shuttered of his emotions yet again. However, neither Aramis or Porthos were prepared for their brother to take the blame, both men spoke as one.

'That is not fair, Captain,' Aramis proclaimed, the sadness from earlier now replaced with dismay.

'It was my fault,' Porthos announced firmly. Treville simply glared, but he could not help feeling a flicker of guilt at the accusation he had just made. Athos had said nothing, his face a cold mask, still staring intently at the wall.

The cold, heavy feeling that settled in the swordsman's gut, prevented him from speaking. He did not even hear what was being said. Treville was disappointed in him, the Captain believed he had sought the solace of drink whilst others around him had suffered, and he had not been wrong; that it had gone against his better judgement changed nothing. He became aware that Aramis was speaking, and he attempted to concentrate, though the beating of his heart attempted to drown out anything else, as it thrummed inside his head. It had been almost two days since he had eaten a decent meal; it seemed every time a plate was set in front of him, something momentous occurred to dispatch his appetite. His body now seemed to be rebelling and he felt so very tired. He was once more reminded of the letter inside his coat, it felt as though it burned through his very skin. Ironic, as it was situated above his frozen heart.

Aramis had obviously been speaking for some time, explaining events at The Wren.

'The man caught me at a disadvantage, but he gave me a message to give to Athos. Athos emerged and managed to drive him off, with the help of Porthos' timely arrival.' Treville's face darkened even more, if that were at all possible.

'You believe it was one of the men demanding protection money?' Treville barked. Aramis nodded.

'It would seem the most probable explanation.' Treville turned to Athos, his face softening a little, the guilt of his earlier accusation surfacing once more.

'Did you recognise him Athos?' His voice was less stern, and Athos finally looked the Captain in the face. Treville sucked in a breath as he saw the look in the young man's eyes. He was not sure what emotion flickered in those green depths, but he knew his words had hurt him as effectively as any blow.

'No, I did not, he wore a scarf over his face. However, his words were telling. He called me swordmaster!' He looked at the Captain now, all signs of sorrow eradicated, and as he raised a brow there was nothing but concentration and cold calculation on the young man's face.

'Swordmaster?' Treville questioned. Both Aramis and Porthos turned to Athos in surprise, as neither of the men had heard the mystery man's parting comment.

'How many people do you think would know of my arrangement within the garrison?' Athos asked quietly. The three men watching him grew thoughtful.

'To people living around the garrison, you would most likely be just another Musketeer, you are regularly seen with Porthos and me,' Aramis stated. Athos nodded, though his gaze never left Treville.

'The King, Richelieu and the Red Guard, they all know of your role,' the Captain offered, though his face was slightly incredulous at what he was suggesting. Again, Athos nodded.

'Noting that nobody was taken to the Châtelet after the Red Guard took the two men away after our disagreement, and the fact they not only recognised me but knew of my position…' His voice trailed off and Treville ran his hands through his sandy hair. All the previous anger drained from his body and his shoulders lost their rigidity, slumping just slightly.

'You think the Red Guards are behind this activity?' the Captain asked, though he appeared to have already reached his own conclusion. Athos shrugged.

'It is a strong possibility, and one I feel we cannot discount. Perhaps more discreet enquiries should be made.' Treville straightened and his demeanour once more took on an air of irritation.

'That will not be possible.' The three men shuffled and made as if to speak, but Treville raised his hand to silence them. 'The King has made it clear he wishes to embark upon his tour the day after tomorrow. Apparently, he is bored, and has decided we have had sufficient time to plan.' Athos looked aghast, grasping the logistical problems in an instant.

'How many men are we down with fever and on reconnaissance?' he asked quietly. Treville took a breath, heartened by the sensible question. Something about having Athos back to discuss the situation with diffused some of the Captain's tension.

'Thirty altogether. There are thirteen in the infirmary and seventeen visiting the proposed destinations on the King's itinerary, though they are not expected to return until next week. On top of that, we may be away for over a month. I cannot leave the Garrison deplete entirely for that length of time, even with the King gone from the city. I fear I will have to take some of the cadets and, though they are all good men, they would not be my first choice for such a journey.'

'Why now?' Aramis asked. Treville laughed, though there was no humour in the sound.

'From the look on Richelieu's face, I suspect he has been whispering in the King's ear.' Treville shook his head in frustration.

'Why?' Porthos queried, somewhat confused. 'I thought the Cardinal was against the journey. What has he to gain from encouraging a premature start?'

'I am convinced he sees this journey as another opportunity to see the regiment fail. No doubt his spies have kept him abreast of our depletion and he is making good use of it. We will have to be on our guard at every moment, as well as obvious threats, for who knows what the First Minister has planned.' The three men let the implications sink in. They would be on the road for at least three days before they reached the safety of Rambouillet, and they doubted the journey would be trouble-free. If Richelieu wanted to end the tour before it began, that stretch of the journey would be his first opportunity. Treville interrupted their thoughts with an unexpected statement.

'Athos, you will have to accompany us. With the men so depleted the King could not object, in fact he has granted me the right to bring you along. I am afraid the Cardinal aided my request, though I am not sure his motivation was on the lines of my own.'

Athos was stunned, and it was Porthos who spoke up.

'Why does Richelieu want Athos to come?' Treville shook his head as he pondered the same question that had been buzzing around his head since his return from the Louvre earlier in the day.

'I am not sure, though we should be alerted by his enthusiasm in persuading His Majesty. He reminded him that Athos was considered the best swordsman in the regiment, if not all of France, and witnessing his skill would be highly entertaining.' All eyes were on Athos, both Porthos and Aramis concerned for their friend who had for some reason garnered the interest of the Cardinal. Athos' face no longer showed surprise. He had retreated behind his defences once more, yet his eyes held Treville's and, for a moment, the Captain thought he saw anger flashing in them.

'So, he anticipates sword play?' Aramis spoke aloud that which all of them in the room were thinking. 'Well he is not wrong in his summation, so let us make sure His Majesty is impressed.' Athos stared at the Musketeer with horror, rolling his eyes as Aramis winked and Porthos let out a loud guffaw; even Treville managed a thin smile at the faith the two Musketeers had in the swordsman. Finally, Treville retreated behind his desk.

'Get plenty of rest, tomorrow there will be much to do. Musketeers are officially confined to barracks until we leave.' The Captain allowed himself a laugh at the three shocked faces before him. 'I cannot afford to lose any more men, especially you,' he added quietly. 'Athos, report to me after muster in the morning, I would like to discuss options.' Athos nodded, and all three had headed toward the door when Treville added: 'I will see what aid can be delivered to The Peacock. It is not their fault, and we must eliminate the source of the disease for good.' Aramis smiled and left the room with a lighter heart.

As Athos passed through the door – first in, last out – Treville stopped him. 'Athos.' The swordsman turned, his face showing no reaction.

'I am sorry, I should not have presumed earlier. I was worried and angry; I should not have said what I did.' Athos paused a beat before nodding to the Captain, accepting the apology. He turned and closed the door behind him, the sound of booted feet on the stairs gradually receding. Treville sighed. Athos may have accepted his apology, but the Captain had seen the hurt in those eyes, and realised that, this time, it was he who had managed to hammer yet another nail into the coffin that housed Athos' guilt.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The night had settled in whilst the three men had stood in Treville's office. Now the moon scudded across the sky, sailing between large, menacing clouds. Bad weather would be a terrible way to begin their journey, though there was always the chance it would put the King off and delay the venture a little longer.

Porthos headed toward the refectory. Despite what Treville had said, he was starving, and he could smell stew.

'Are you comin'?' he bellowed, pausing to ensure both Athos and Aramis were following. Aramis had faltered, his appetite somewhat tainted by thoughts of the men who had been infected through food consumed inside the garrison.

'You 'eard what the Captain said, the food is all fresh. Serge will be upset; we need to show we trust 'im,' Porthos growled. This hit home, and Aramis' handsome face split into a wide grin.

Slapping Athos on the shoulder, he grinned. 'He is right, mon ami, let us show we are not afraid to eat food inside our own walls.' Without waiting for Athos' reply, he began striding after Porthos.

Athos stood in a pool of moonlight, and removing the pocket watch from his jacket he checked the time; only six thirty – it felt much later. However, the darkness came much earlier in March, there was too much time to wait. He sighed, the note still weighing heavy upon his chest like the stone lid of a tomb. Even breathing in and out brought continued reminders, as the parchment flexed and rustled along with the rapid beating of his heart.

Aramis had looked over his shoulder and noted Athos gazing at the timepiece as if it were an object of doom. He had not forgotten the missive Athos had received from the small boy, and the fact Athos was watching the time was telling. Athos never looked at the time, he had some form of inherent awareness that allowed him to know of the hour without consulting any other source of confirmation. That he did so now spoke of his agitation and anxiety, it signified the importance of the hour, suggesting a meeting – though with whom, he had no idea. Aramis continued toward the refectory, relieved that Athos was now walking behind him.

They entered the warm confines of the only communal space within the garrison. Normally, at this time of night, the room was full of Musketeers, eating and drinking, sharing news of their day, or just socialising in general.

Tonight, there were only two tables occupied, and those men sat around them were talking quietly, most with only cups of ale or wine before them. Porthos was already at the hatch, where Serge was ladling thick stew into a bowl, and from the look on his face and the way he was mumbling, it was obvious the cook was deeply unhappy.

'Good evening Serge, a bowl of your delicious stew if you please,' Aramis requested, grinning at the old man as though rumours of infected food did not abound within the garrison walls.

Serge simply looked at him as though he were insane. The smile faltered for a second before Aramis became all seriousness.

'I apologise Serge, but I am in earnest, I do wish to enjoy a bowl of stew. I have no hesitation eating your food.' The two men locked eyes, then the old man looked away, ladling stew into a bowl.

'As if I would serve infected food after all these years,' he muttered, the mantra having been all he had said for most of the day.

'Do not berate yourself, Serge, you could not have known Tricoux was infected. It is not your fault.' Aramis patted the old man's arm, as he procured a chunk of bread and a cup of wine. Serge nodded, still muttering, though his wrinkled face showed he appreciated the man's words.

Athos found himself standing before the old Musketeer, Serge frowning, ladle suspended in mid-air.

'Do you want stew?' Serge barked, as if defying the swordsman to say no. Athos, who doubted he could eat anything whilst his insides currently churned in anticipation, merely nodded, aware that his answer was important to the garrison cook.

'Humph,' the old man grunted. 'Well it must be alright then, if you want some.' He offered Athos the ghost of a smile as he ladled in a little extra. 'Seen more meat on a skeleton than on you boy.' Serge mumbled, adding a chunk of bread and cheese to Athos' tray. 'Now make sure you eat it up.' Athos managed a weak grin before he took hold of the tray and carried it to the table in front of the fire, where Porthos was already digging into his supper.

He placed the tray before him and regarded the contents for a moment, then lifted his gaze and saw Aramis nod toward the group of men sitting around the table on the other side of the room. His eyes followed where the Musketeer had indicated, and he noted the men had ceased their chatter and were watching Athos and his brothers intently as they prepared to eat their meal.

'I think we are being watched, mon ami. We need to eat, for Serge's sake.' With that, Aramis scooped up a spoonful of stew, and nodded his head in recognition of its quality. Athos broke off a portion of bread and dipped it into the rich gravy. Biting off a mouthful, he almost choked; as he had anticipated, the food tasted like ashes, sticking in his throat as he tried to swallow. Still it was enough. One by one the other men rose from their tables and went to collect bowls of stew from the old man. Word soon spread, and before Porthos had finished his bowl, the refectory was full of hungry Musketeers. Aramis raised his glass to the cook and the old man gave a grateful smile and a nod in response.

Porthos eyed Aramis across the table, and silently indicated Athos' untouched bowl of stew. The swordsman had managed to consume the bread, though how he had managed to swallow it he did not know. Now he nibbled at the chunk of cheese as though it were poison.

'I take it yer don't want that?' Porthos asked, poking his spoon at Athos' stew. Athos looked up as though he was surprised to find he had company. He pushed the bowl toward Porthos but said nothing. Between mouthfuls, Porthos managed to speak. 'You shouldn't take what Treville said to 'eart, 'e didn't mean it, and 'e wasn't singling you out, although I know you thought 'e was.' Athos stared at Porthos, as though he did not understand what the Musketeer was talking about. Porthos took this as permission to continue. 'You were right, and I should have listened, we should have reported to Treville first. The Captain knows it was my idea.'

Athos was suddenly relieved. If the men put his mood down to Treville's dressing down, then that was all to the good as they would not be inclined to ask questions. He glanced at Aramis to gauge the man's reaction. The marksman was watching Athos closely, a thoughtful look on his face. Athos knew he had seen the note that now lay blistering his chest as though the missive had been written with acid. Aramis smiled and began making idle chatter, but Athos was not fooled, he knew the Musketeer did not believe his brooding was the result of Treville's chastisement.

Porthos' eyes grew heavy. They had talked of this and that, or rather he and Aramis had talked, Athos had hardly spoken a word, just the odd acknowledgment of a question, or the occasional grunt at a joke made at his expense.

'Well I'm turnin' in, all that food and Athos' constant chatter has worn me out.' He winked at Aramis, generating a picture of innocence, as Athos gave him one of his most withering stares. Porthos simply guffawed loudly, standing and stretching his large frame as he yawned. Athos was not intending to sleep, but he was aware of Aramis' intent gaze and knew that, if he did not retire now, the marksman would eventually try and wrest the information he required from him – a conversation Athos had no intention of having. So, he also stood, indicating he, too, would retire. Porthos smiled at Aramis. 'What about you?'

Aramis shrugged. 'Well, as you two are not offering to keep me company, and Treville has seen to it that I cannot console the lonely ladies of this fair city tonight, then yes, I will also retire.' Athos was not taken in by the marksman's admission of defeat, and he guessed Aramis would be watching him like a hawk; he would have to think very carefully before he made his escape.

oOo

Milady paced up and down the floor of her apartment, the shadows thrown by the lit candles acting like silent watchers, dark and judgemental, as she repeatedly moved around the room. She held the glass in her hand as though she was unaware of its presence, only occasionally lifting it to her lips to sip the blood-red wine. Stopping to glance at the time piece upon the mantle yet again, she had to wonder if time could possibly be standing still; it was the only solution as to why, every time she consulted the clock, the hour did not appear to have advanced. She supped her wine distractedly, and resumed her pacing once more, when all at once the clock chimed the half hour. It would seem that not only could time stand still, but it could accelerate at a ridiculous rate also. Her pacing stilled, and she placed her goblet beside the time piece, just as the last chime echoed in the otherwise silent room.

Milady raised her eyes to the mirror above the mantle. A beautiful woman stared back at her, and she gazed at the reflection as though she were meeting the features before her for the very first time. The dark, feathered brows, arched over slanting, green eyes, and high cheek bones defined her pale face. Hers were full lips – lips that could be passionate or cruel – now parted slightly to allow rapid breaths to leave her body, as her heart raced ridiculously quickly. She ceased her investigation of the image before her – she would not find answers there; she had tried too many times before. But the woman who looked back simply mocked and laughed at her vulnerability, urging her to harden her heart to the world, and telling her to seek nothing but self-gratification, wherever it was offered.

With a last moan of disgust, she collected her cloak, checking her purse and knife were securely in place. Closing the door carefully behind her, she stepped out into the empty street. Raising her eyes, she noted the large, glowing moon, which slipped in and out of the clouds, just like the way she used the shadows and doorways to camouflage her progress through the silent city.

oOo

As the hours dragged on and on, Athos paced the small room and stared at the bottle beside the bed. How he longed to drink deep and forget all the drama and tragedy, her very existence elicited. He was still finding it almost impossible to assimilate the fact that she was alive, and from nowhere the memory would slam into him like a punch to the gut. He would reel from the shock, as though he had physically felt the full force of the impact. Even now, her existence within the city sent his system into a heightened sense of awareness, and he was constantly struggling to replace his old emotions with a whole set of new ones. No longer torturing himself over the execution of his own wife, he was now guilt ridden with the failure to give his brother the justice he deserved. But more important, was the recent, unexpected revelation – the sensation her proximity still aroused in him; another reason he would not touch the tempting bottle, for he needed every ounce of self-control he could muster. He told himself he would not repeat what had happened before – that had simply been the result of shock, nothing more. If Athos recognised the lie beneath his reasoning, he chose to ignore it. No good could come of their reunion, though he sensed a great deal of harm and pain awaiting him out there in the darkness.

As midnight drew closer, Athos considered how he could depart the garrison unseen. Treville had banned them from leaving, though technically he had only mentioned Musketeers. It was enough of a detail to assuage Athos' guilt at disobeying the Captain, though he felt no such dismay in evading his overprotective friend.

oOo

Aramis had been struggling to stay awake since they had left the refectory. He had deliberately left the fire in his room unlit, despite the chill of the night air, as he did not want a warm room to lure him into slumber, when Athos could slip out at any moment. It was now nearing midnight, and he felt cold and stiff, not to mention rather annoyed. Perhaps he had read the situation completely wrong, perhaps the note had informed Athos of some event, something that would happen elsewhere at a given time. He groaned at the thought of the hours he had lost when he could have been in his warm bed, whilst Athos was very probably fast asleep.

He was still chastising his own overactive imagination, when he heard a noise in the courtyard below. The marksman had kept his small window ajar, and his seat close by – neither conducive to his comfort. He threw off the blanket he had draped around his shoulders, and quietly stepped into the corridor outside his room, which was open to the courtyard below. He stood silently against the wall, keeping to the shadows; two or three torches shone in the darkest corners, for the benefit of those who were assigned night duty.

As he adjusted to the movement of the torchlight and the shadows they cast, he heard the sound again, the hint of a click, or rattle. It was faint, but he thought it came from the stables, a feeling that was confirmed by the sudden whinnying from the horses inside. Aramis dashed to the stairs, pulling his weapon in readiness. He suspected it was Athos, though why his friend would be in the stables was a mystery, for Roger was still enjoying the hospitality of Monsieur René.

As the marksman slipped amidst the gloom toward the stables, he heard the horses whinny again. Athos almost grinned with pleasure as he watched Aramis creeping toward the opening. His only dilemma was the discomfort he was causing the horses, but he knew their distress would be short-lived. He wrapped his hand where he had cut his palm and pulled on his gloves; needs must, and he knew Aramis was too good for him to have escaped any other way. When he reached the gateway, he could just hear Aramis' calm voice, soothing the upset animals.

The two Musketeers guarding the gateway stood off to one side, obviously discussing something of import on which, judging by the tone of their voices, they held differing opinions. To be fair, they were keeping a close eye on the street ahead, but then they were looking for someone sneaking in, not sneaking out.

Athos kept close against the wall of the garrison until he reached the corner of the empty market stalls, from where he moved stealthily from one wooden structure to the other, his black garb aiding his escape. Crouching low until he was sure nobody would notice him, he then straightened, striding purposefully toward his rendezvous.

oOo

Aramis was frustrated; something had spooked the horses, something that had caused them to stamp and complain. They had calmed almost immediately upon his arrival, but the small mare, which they used mainly for baggage, still rolled her eyes and backed away from the door to her stall whenever Aramis removed his reassuring touch.

'What is it girl, what has upset you?' He raised a torch, and lit two more, placing his back upon the wall; the stables were now bathed in a warm glow and the horses appeared to relax. Just as he was about to give up, Aramis trod on something hard and unforgiving, he bent down, flexing his ankle and muttered, as his hand wrapped around a bunch of cloth, something small and hard within. He raised the object to the light and stared, his expression part bemused, part horrified. Gingerly he lifted the damp cloth to his nose, instantly smelling the sharp metallic tang of blood. Aramis pulled the string away, afraid at what he might find within.

As the bottle stopper fell into his hand, his mouth fell open in surprise, and the small mare again showed her displeasure. Placing the strange object on one side, he took a torch and held it aloft, lighting the skittish horse's stall. Sure enough, another bloodied missile. Aramis opened the gate and carefully retrieved it from the hay, all the time talking calmly to the wild-eyed horse. He checked what was now clearly a bloodied square of linen, the A in the corner an unmistakeable sign that its owner had merely gone for distraction rather than secrecy.

Aramis rolled his eyes and thumped the wooden post. He examined the bloodied cloth that had obviously disconcerted the poor hoses, after sailing through the air and arresting their peace and quiet. Horses did not like the scent of blood.

'Not well done of you Athos, and God knows where you got the blood.' Aramis shuddered at the prospect. It was pointless looking for him now – if he wanted to go alone, so be it. Aramis scoffed at his own stupid notion that Athos would have failed to get his own way, and he had to admit it was a clever trick. All he could do now was wait until the morning and be prepared to pick up the pieces, if that was what was needed – and he had a premonition it would.

oOo

Milady and her pale companion flitted along their differing pathways, each seeming to hurry across the open spaces before seeking solace for a heartbeat, hidden in the shadows and the ensuing darkness. Eventually, the bridge loomed before her, the gentle rippling of the small river that fed the larger Seine flowing beneath the watching stars, ever moving, unaware and uncaring of the dramas acted out upon its banks as it passed.

She stood in the shelter of the parapet and listened. Nothing other than the lap of the water as it rolled over the occasional rock or stone; even the creatures that lived within had sunk to the darkened depth to pass away the hours of the night. She strained her ears for any sign she was not alone – there was always the possibility that he would not come. No, he would not deny her. After their last meeting, curiosity alone would ensure he came, and she told herself she did not care whether any other emotion played a part in his decision. For just a moment, she wondered whether, if time had allowed, and she had found the slightest inclination, she could actually have pin-pointed the precise moment when she had allowed herself to justify her actions with so many lies.

Was it when she told herself Athos meant nothing, just a title, and a comfortable life? When she told herself she did not love him, need him, worship him – he was just a means to an end? Or was it when she convinced herself her downfall was all his fault, that he would surely pay for doing his duty? No, she did not have time to ask such questions, she did not care; more lies, more obfuscation.

The sound of a pebble scooting across the rocky river path made her snap to attention. She held her breath and listened more intently, as the moon chose that moment to emerge from behind the clouds in all her glory, casting light in all but the darkest depths of the bridge. She saw him then, a figure clad in black, the leather of his clothing catching the light, whilst the sword at his belt appeared to glow. For a moment she held her breath; her husband was an impressive figure under any circumstances, though she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge it – more lies. Yet somehow, here in the moonlight, with the silvery glow lighting up the surface of the water and casting him in an almost mythical aura, she could only stare.

His face wore that conceited mask that gave nothing away, yet she alone knew that bland and arrogant stare could disguise an almost feral passion. When he looked at her like that, almost cold and indifferent, her legs tuned to water and her blood to fire, desire overriding any sane thought she might have had. As the moon slid behind the clouds once more, she sighed with relief and sucked in a breath of cold air. The darkness that now enveloped her gave her time to come to her senses, the spell created by the moonlight broken, allowing her to curb her needs and calm the tumult raging within.

Curling her fingers into fists, she narrowed her eyes, slammed shut her heart, abandoned her desires, and took a step toward him.

Athos stood beneath the oppressive structure of the bridge, his heart pumping, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands as though preparing to do battle. As the moon swept into view, the area was bathed in a pale light and he saw the woman walking toward him. Her cloak was the colour of moss, dark hair falling from beneath her hood over one shoulder, her skin was pale and smooth, almost luminescent beneath the celestial glow. He could not make out her eyes, but he did not need to, he knew them too well – they visited him each night, every time he closed his own.

She came to a stop just a few feet away and, though she was tall for a woman, she still had to tilt her head slightly to look Athos in the eye. Neither face gave anything away, testament to their will power, as in truth there was enough emotion present beneath their vacant façades to create a storm.

'You sent for me,' Athos almost whispered, the low arrogant tone sending shivers throughout her body, as his voice always had. Reigning in the urge to reach out and touch what she could not have, she fell back on her well-practised nonchalance. Tilting her head, she smiled, giving her best impression of amusement.

'I did, though I was not sure you would come.' She stood completely still, giving Athos the opportunity to reply. When he continued to say nothing, she merely shrugged her slim shoulders and exuded indifference.

'We have a situation. I am assuming – from what I have observed – that your true identity is unknown to your friends, and definitely not known to the King.' She noted the flicker of anger flare in Athos' eyes. For a moment, she found she could not tear her gaze away from those green depths, appearing now almost black in the dark. When he still did not respond, she continued: 'As I suspected. Do not concern yourself, I consider it in my own best interests for you to continue with your anonymity. However, you have come to the attention of the Cardinal and, like a dog with a bone, he wants to know more about you. For once, your being an enigma is working against you, Athos.' This time, he finally spoke.

'Why would this be a problem for you, and how do you know?' He watched closely as she shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the question, she knew was inevitable. Athos' heart squeezed as realisation flooded through him. With a look of horror and shock, he threw his next words at her like ice-cold water hitting her face.

'You are the Cardinal's mistress?' Disgust was evident in his voice, sending her pent-up emotion out of control.

'No!' she cried; anger obvious in her tone. 'Perhaps, for a brief time. What was I supposed to do? Of course, you would have had more respect for me if I had begged in the gutter or waited at tables in some cheap and sleazy tavern. Well I had spread my legs for one wealthy noble, and rather liked it, so I did not see why I should not do it again.' Instantly she wished she could have sucked the words back in, but she had wanted to hurt him, as his judgement had hurt her. Now the look of pain and desolation on his handsome face almost undid her. She watched him struggle to maintain control. His breathing was harsh, and she watched him curl his hands into fists at his sides, all the time holding her gaze, his stare never wavering.

He had so many questions he wanted to demand answers for, but he could not, would not – almost ashamed that after all he had done, all that he had lost, his overriding need was to scream did you ever love me?

She was the first to lower her gaze, not out of shame but because she feared if she stared at the depth of his sorrow any longer, she would take him in her arms and make that sadness go away. She preferred his cold, judgement and disgust to the look of grief and disappointment she had inspired with her hurtful lies. She found herself offering pathetic excuses, and her shame deepened.

'It was brief, and not at all pleasant. The man is a snake.' Athos interrupted her, almost spitting out his words.

'I have no desire to hear the details of your whoring, madame.' His eyes had grown hooded, and anger now bubbled where betrayal had so recently bled from his visage. She took a deep breath. She knew that look so well – the intense brooding gaze, the same stare that spoke of both anger and desire, the one that, under either circumstance, always left her panting with want. Her words almost caught in her throat, but she struggled to sound as aloof as she was able.

'I am not apologising, husband. I no longer share his bed, I provide other services, ones for which I am sure you believe I am better suited.' She raised one elegant brow and gave him a cat-like smile.

'You are his spy, living in the shadows, watching and waiting, using your… talents to achieve your ends, dripping tales and lies into his cauldron of information. Yes, I am sure you are invaluable.' His voice oozed contempt. 'I still do not see why you felt the need to meet in such a manner, simply to crow of your new lofty position.' She narrowed her eyes but refused to be dragged into defending her position yet again.

'The Cardinal wishes me to accompany him on the King's tour, he has "arranged" for me to be a part of the Queen's retinue. He… he senses something between us, and he will be watching. I thought you should be warned. It is in neither of our interests for our past to be bought into the light.' She held her head high and awaited his inevitable response.

'How does he know of our connection, has the spy master been trailing his own creature?' He almost showed a slight twist of his lips, lips she suddenly found so alluring. She could simply find no words to explain the Cardinal's curiosity without revealing her own. Athos took a step closer. Now they stood almost toe to toe, she could hear his breathing, feel it on her cheek in the chill of the spring night. Athos leaned closer, if that were possible.

'Did you show too much interest in my fall from grace? Did you ask too many questions, revel in my broken body?' He spat the questions at her, the accusations so close to the truth, as forceful as any bullet from a weapon.

'No, no! I never wanted to see your hurt.' The words went so against everything she had dreamt of for the past few years, she shocked even herself, but they issued forth before she could stop them. The image sprang into her mind of Athos lying bleeding on the floor beneath the palace window, the night he had jumped clutching a bomb. The admission had affected her far more than it had him, realisation spearing through her and unravelling her composure. Two years she had lay in the darkness planning his demise, imagining his face as she plunged a dagger deep into his heart. Now she was admitting she might never have carried such a task through to completion. No matter how angry, how much she hated, still, if he was to be harmed, it would be by her own hand, and no other.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she reached out and stroked his cheek. Athos stiffened and closed his eyes, hissing as he inhaled the soft smell of jasmine. He felt the soft fingers as they caressed his cheek and jaw, the urge to grab her hand and pull her close almost overwhelming. Suddenly he felt warm lips upon his, a brief but urgent kiss. His eyes flew open, but she was gone. The air appeared to shimmer before him, as though the natural order of things had been disturbed by her presence.

He moaned out loud and wiped a hand over his eyes. He could not be near the woman without his entire existence being thrown into turmoil, how the hell would he cope with her presence for the next few months?

She heard the moan of despair and felt the tears slowly fall from her tired eyes. He might be pained by his loss, but he now loathed and despised her. His treacherous body, like her own, still betrayed them both in the desire they could not deny. But she hated the creature he had forced her to become, hated the moral high ground that would rather have seen her starve than use her assets to survive. Anger began to rise up in her chest once more, and she felt relief. She would rather hate and allow aggression to consume her emotions, than suffer the pain of what she had lost, of what she could never have again.

'God, will this never end!' Athos cried into the silence. He pondered on all that she had revealed – that she had gone from his bed to the Cardinal's sickened him. She had been right, though, he would have felt differently had she pursued a humbler path, but it was not her way, she liked the finer things in life, the things a Comte could provide. Her words still stung, like a lance through his heart. I had already spread my legs for one wealthy noble and found I liked it. That burning question again, had it all been a lie? When they stood close, he could believe it had not, but perhaps lust was stronger than love, perhaps that was all it had ever been – at least for her.

Slowly he made his way back to the garrison. Once inside the quiet of his room he sat on the edge of his bed and sank his head in his hands. Had he decided her fate, given her no choice? No, there was always a choice, she had decided her own path, and there was no going back. Now there was the new problem of the Cardinal's interest, but hopefully the King would occupy the First Minister enough for him to forget about a lowly swordmaster. Whatever it took, he would keep the man at arm's length – at all costs.

Athos removed his boots, weapons belt and jacket, and lay back upon the bed; there were precious few hours before morning, but he dreaded them already. His eyes were too heavy to fight, and his body was weak from too little food and too much emotion. With a sense of dread, he was dragged into a fitful sleep, his dead brother accused him of betraying his memory, whilst his body gave into the desire he had felt in that woman's presence; forcing him to completion, beneath the judgemental ghost of his kin. Desire slaked and his soul resigned to burn in hell.


End file.
